More Than Just A Murder
by AkitaFallow
Summary: As bodies pile up and evidence remains scarce, the CSI team has to fight against increasingly strange circumstances and an even stranger suspect in order to solve what is likely the most complicated case they have ever encountered. /FMA 2003 anime/
1. The Beginning of a Nightmare

**My first crossover, so I'm not really sure how this is gonna turn out! At least I've got a really big cage full of plot bunnies… I'm not gonna run out of ideas (unless they escape…) XP**

**I DON'T OWN FMA OR CSI (though I wish I did… my life would be soooo much easier…)**

**EDIT (08/15/2010): Hopefully some things have been improved (mostly some OCC moments and juvenile mistakes, along with adding more description).**

* * *

Grissom massaged his head as he drove. Another call had come in, about a murder out near a power plant outside of Vegas. A night worker there had stumbled across the body in the bushes. It seemed as if their serial killer had struck again.

He pulled the SUV in beside the police cruisers and climbed out, pulling his CSI kit from the passenger seat as he did. Captain Jim Brass came over to speak with him.

"Seems this one's the same as all the others. Beaten and stabbed to death, then dumped here," he said. "It looks like our killer's getting sloppy. According to Warrick, our vic wasn't dead until about an hour ago. Maybe we can get a lead on him, if we hurry."

Grissom nodded and ducked under the police tape. The victim was lying in a small clearing among the bushes. Warrick stood and greeted him.

"She died just recently, if the bruises are anything to go by. And she hasn't been here long, otherwise she'd be a lot colder than she is."

Grissom agreed. It was the middle of winter; the nights dropped below zero degrees. "Maybe our killer's still around?"

Warrick shrugged. "He's managed to avoid us before."

Grissom nodded and knelt by the dead woman. She looked about 20, with long blonde hair splayed around her in a dirty tangle. She was dressed decently enough, with a blouse and skirt (both stained and ripped by this point, but that was to be expected), but that wasn't surprising. Their killer always went after her type.

He began to collect evidence; there was a stain of red blood under her fingernails. Hopefully it belonged to the killer. Carefully, he scraped it into an evidence bag. There was a small amount of dust on her clothes amidst all the blood, but it was impossible to tell if it was from the ground around her or someplace else. There were three visible stab wounds in her chest; one just above her heart, where the most blood was located, and two closer to her stomach. Bruises littered what little was visible of her skin. With careful precision born of years on the job, Grissom inspected her clothes, searching for telltale hairs or any other kind of trace evidence that could give them the case. He didn't hold out much hope, though—this killer had already proven to be very good at covering his tracks.

Grissom's head darted up as there was a rustle in the bushes off to one side, along with a muffled groan. He stood slowly and motioned to Brass. The police captain pulled out his gun and started toward the bush.

There was another groan, and someone moved in among the leaves.

"Las Vegas police! Put your hands on your head and come out!" shouted Brass.

It was dark, but he could see enough to notice a dark shape rise from the bushes.

"Now walk this way slowly!" Brass pointed his gun at the figure.

The person stepped forward a little. Grissom could see that he was unarmed, but not much more than that.

"Move it!" the police captain shouted.

The figure went to step forward, but, suddenly, he bolted to the right. Brass swore.

"Go, go, go! After him! He's our only suspect!" he roared to the men around him, even as the figure had already skirted the cars and made his way towards the plant. The guy was _fast_!

Brass and his men spread out and ran after the suspect. They tramped through the bushes in hot pursuit.

Unable to do anything more, Grissom went back to inspecting his victim.

* * *

They thought they had him when they came to the wire fence of the power plant, but that's when they got their first surprise. The guy jumped onto the top of the fence, balanced there for a second, then leapt down on the other side.

"How the _hell_ did he jump so high?" Brass shouted as two officers scrabbled over the fence, while the rest ran around to the gate, which was quickly opened by a night worker once she saw their guns and badges. The police swarmed into the plant.

Brass saw a flash of movement near the fence to the left.

"Over there!"

One over-zealous officer fired at the silhouette before he managed to reach the fence. They heard a muffled curse, and he abruptly changed direction, running towards a dark storage shed. Brass spared a moment to give the rookie a glare before they were once again in hot pursuit.

They turned around the shed, only to see their suspect whisk around the next corner.

It turned out to be a dead end. It was dark, but Brass could tell the guy was there, between the two sheds with his back to a wall.

"Give it up and come quietly," Brass called, "otherwise we'll be forced to shoot!"

The figure made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort, before darting to one of the sheds and vaulted himself onto the roof. Brass swore again and lifted his gun, but the suspect had already jumped down the other side.

Five minutes later, and they were still after him. The guy never seemed to get tired, even when sprinting outright. He never got too far ahead, but whenever they nearly caught up, he gave them the slip, usually by going over sheds and power resistors. Brass was soon very tired of chasing the guy, but he didn't stop. They'd been following this murder case for a month now, with five bodies and no suspects whatsoever. He wasn't going to give up his only lead.

Fortunately, backup police had arrived, and they were positioned all the way around the plant fence, so the suspect couldn't get out. That had to be a plus.

Brass and his men followed the figure into a warehouse. Maybe now they finally had a chance to catch him…

It was his lucky day. The suspect sprinted across the warehouse to a door on the other side, yanking it open and running through. Brass followed and stepped out to find they were in a narrow service hallway between warehouses, with no doors on either side. At the other end, three other officers came through the door. Their suspect stopped in mid-stride when he saw the guns pointed at his head, and turned slowly to face Brass.

"Dead end," Brass called. "We can do this the easy way or the hard way."

Of course, the hall was semi-dark, it being the middle of the night, but Brass swore he saw the guy grimace.

"There is no easy way with you people."

There was a flash of light. When the spots cleared from his eyes, Brass saw something in the guy's hand.

"He has a concealed weapon!" he yelled into the radio on his vest. "I repeat, suspect has a concealed weapon!"

The figure had crouched into a defensive stance. "I don't want to have to hurt anyone."

Brass brought his gun up. "DON'T MOVE!"

"It'd be better for you if I did." The guy brought his leg up in an instant and kicked the wall. Brass stood in shock for a second before trying to peer through the resulting dust, but the guy was gone. He ran through the rubble and stopped before a large hole in the wall.

"What the hell?"

He shook off his confusion—for the moment—and climbed through the hole and saw a shadow flit around a corner up ahead.

"He's headed for the western fence!" he said into his radio. "All personnel to the fence! Suspect is armed and dangerous!"

Men streamed through the hole into the night, following the suspect to the fence. There, they found him surrounded by at least six officers, all pointing their guns at him.

The lights of the power plant had at last been turned on, and Brass got his first proper look at the shadow he'd been chasing around for almost half an hour.

The guy's back was turned to him. He was shorter than he'd looked in the dark, with blonde hair braided down his back. He wore a red trench coat with an odd black symbol on the back (how he moved so quickly in that, Brass didn't know), and black leather pants. The combat boots on his feet were caked with dust. His hands were in the air, and Brass saw he wore white gloves. There was no sign of the weapon he'd had earlier.

Brass stepped between two officers. "You're under arrest for fleeing the scene of a crime, threatening a police officer, evading—"

Brass stopped speaking as the guy turned around. It was only a kid, no more than twelve or thirteen years old at best, though the leanness of his face might suggest older.

"You were saying?"

Brass regained his composure as the boy's strikingly golden eyes narrowed at him. "…evading arrest, and breaking and entering."

"When the hell did I break and enter?" the kid spat.

"This is private property."

The kid snorted. "That's trespassing, idiot. What do you want?"

Brass bristled. Wasn't it kind of obvious? He didn't want to explain himself to a delinquent, let alone one who insulted him on the job. "You've fled the scene of a crime. That alone is fishy enough, not to mention how you ran."

"So you think I'm a murderer?"

Brass had had enough. He was tired, and this kid was only making the situation more aggravating. He pulled a pair of cuffs out of his belt and stepped forward.

"You think I'm gonna go with _you_?"

"You'd better if you know what's good for you."

"Well, I have something I have to do right now."

The boy brought his hands together as if to pull something out of his sleeve. Brass lunged.

He tackled the kid to the ground. Landing on top, Brass tried to pin his arms, but the boy fought like a wildcat. He had the strength of one, too. Getting his right arm free, he punched Brass in the face. Brass staggered back, holding his nose, and the gathered officers all leapt at the kid. After a very brief struggle, two officers stood, each holding one of his arms. He kicked out at them, one foot connecting with a man's knee. The officer yelped and let go. The boy took the opportunity to try and throw off the other, but yet another officer was already gripping his arm. He kept struggling until, finally, someone smacked him over the head with the butt of his gun. The boy finally stood still between the officers, his head hanging, his face hidden by blonde bangs.

Brass stood, wiping blood from his face.

"Cuff him, and make sure he doesn't run. We're taking him back to Vegas."

The kid lifted his head slightly and glared at Brass with gold eyes full of anger as the officers pulled his hands behind his back. They patted him down for weapons, and once he was deemed 'clean', they hauled him out of the plant and back to the crime scene, tossing him in the back of a cruiser.

* * *

"Damn, that kid packs a punch!" Brass muttered as a paramedic inspected his nose. "Who'd've thought a kid his size could hit that hard?"

"That's what you get for rushing a suspect who's supposedly drawing a weapon," Warrick commented as he strode over.

"Well, I'd had enough of him," Brass retorted.

Warrick sighed, then looked over at the cruiser, in which the kid sat staring at the seat in front of him.

"So you think he's our guy?"

Brass shrugged. "It's hard to say. He's definitely strong enough. He ran from the scene of the crime, he had a weapon—which no one's managed to find yet—and it sounded like he's had experiences with the law before. He doesn't strike me as the murdering type, though."

"I know what you mean," replied Warrick. "A kid his age really isn't a likely suspect for murder."

"You'd be surprised. We'll find out once we bring him back to the station for questioning. Ouch!" The paramedic had touched his nose in the wrong place, and he winced.

"Looks like it's not broken, but it'll hurt for a while," she said with a professional air, before smirking. "Well done, Captain Brass." Brass spared her an eye roll and a grudging thanks before stepping away from the ambulance.

"All this trouble for one little kid…" he muttered before climbing into the cruiser.

* * *

The ride back to Vegas was uneventful. Any attempt to question the boy was ignored. Brass finally gave up, and the rest of the drive passed in silence. The kid stared stolidly out the window, apparently either sulking or lost in thought. Eventually, he closed his eyes.

They got to the station just as the sun started to rise. Brass sighed. He hadn't had to pull an all-nighter in awhile, and now some kid was keeping him from his well-deserved rest. If he wasn't the only—and most likely—suspect in the case, Brass probably would have left the job to his deputies, but this was too important.

"Get out," Brass growled after he climbed out of the cruiser himself. He opened the door and hauled the kid out by his cuffed hands. Other police cruisers pulled up behind them. One officer immediately climbed out and pointed his gun at the boy, nudging him slightly in the back with it. The rest walked into the station.

"Start walking." Brass shoved the kid forward, and he stumbled up the steps into the building.

After putting him into one of the interrogation rooms, Brass spoke with Grissom, who'd arrived just before him.

"He didn't talk the whole way back," Brass muttered. "Seems as if he's used up all his energy for the night. Who do you think he is?"

Grissom shook his head. "I guess the only way to really find out is to go in there and ask him."

When they entered the room, the boy was sitting on a chair with his elbows on the table and his head in his hands. As the two men sat down, he spoke through gritted teeth. "I thought I told you there was something I had to do."

"Yes, you did. What exactly is it you have to do so badly?"

"None of your business." Golden eyes came up to glare coldly at him, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Brass lifted his eyebrows. "Really? You're just making this harder on yourself, you know."

Before he could get further, Grissom interrupted. "What's your name?"

"That's none of your business either." Brass almost sighed as that frigid gaze was turned on his friend.

"Well, we can't really find your parents or get you a lawyer unless we know your name."

"I don't _have _parents, and I don't care about whatever lawyer you might give me," he scoffed.

Grissom sighed. "Could you at least tell us your age?"

"I'm sixteen."

Brass couldn't help it; he gaped.

"You're… sixteen?" he sputtered.

"What's your point?" the boy asked, his voice dangerously low as his hands fell flat on the table, as if he was ready to leap to his feet.

"I thought you were… well, younger."

"_WHO'RE YOU CALLING SHORT?_" the kid shouted, shoving his chair back with a crash and standing.

"Sit down! What the hell is your problem?" Brass spat, standing as well. "Take a seat or I'll get another officer in here, and we'll _make _you take a seat." He pointed at the fallen chair dangerously.

The boy reached down and righted the chair before sitting slowly, his glare never leaving the captain.

"I'm not _short_," he growled through clenched teeth.

"No need to get touchy on me. We're just asking questions."

"My name's Edward Elric. You happy now? I'd appreciate if you left me alone."

Grissom leaned forward. "Mr. Elric—"

"Call me Ed," the blonde ordered curtly.

Grissom was unfazed. "Ed. How did you end up at the crime scene?"

Ed gave him a look that promised pain if they didn't leave him alone. "How the hell would I know?"

"What do you mean by that?" Brass growled.

"Exactly what I said. I don't have a clue how I ended up near you precious 'crime scene'." The air quotes he made screamed "_TEENAGER!"_, but the glare that accompanied them was anything but.

It didn't seem to be going anywhere, so Brass asked a new question. "Then why'd you run?"

"D'you think you'd stick around if you had a gun in your face? I've had enough of _those_ for a lifetime."

Brass was careful to note that. "That still doesn't explain why you ran when we ordered you not to." He was getting irritated.

Ed sighed. "When you've been avoiding certain people for a long time, you don't just let someone take you wherever they want without a fight. And I don't trust people with guns."

"So you're a fugitive from the law."

"No."

"Then who the hell are you avoiding?" Brass smacked the table in frustration.

"People who want to use me, then kill me."

Brass was struck dumb by the kid's bluntness. Before he could say something stupid, Grissom intervened.

"Is someone after you? Maybe for money? Are they trying to kidnap you?"

Ed snorted, but didn't say anything. His eyes said that he was most definitely _not_ going to answer any questions in that direction. Grissom sighed, but rerouted.

"Where are you from?"

"Risembool, in Amestris."

Grissom frowned, but didn't press the issue. He'd never heard of Amestris before, but Ed was already defensive enough without them saying he was a liar.

"You said you don't have parents?"

"Yeah, well, my mom got sick and died about seven years ago."

"What about your father?"

"Don't even talk about that _bastard_."

Grissom raised his eyebrows. "I take it you have a bad relationship with him."

Ed laughed harshly. "A bad relationship? I'd say no relationship at all. He left Mom to raise us all on her own. He never came back, and he never wrote, not even when she died! You call _that_ a father?"

There was silence for a minute. Ed finally sighed.

"So you think I'm a murderer?"

Brass looked straight into those determined golden eyes. "We'll see."

He motioned to Grissom, and they both stood and walked out of the room, closing the door behind them. Then they went and joined Catherine Willows in the room next door, on the other side of the one-way mirror. The three stood in silence for a moment.

"I don't think he's our guy," Grissom said suddenly. Catherine lifted an eyebrow.

"Do you say that because of his age, or one of your own reasons?"

"It's not his age. I don't know, it's just a feeling." He didn't mention what he'd seen in Ed's eyes: a mixture of pride and determination, covering a current of pain and regret. There was no murder in those eyes, but he obviously had seen more horrible things than any kid his age should have. "I'm not saying he's totally innocent, but he's not part of this case."

Brass scowled. "I wish he was, so I could return a favour," he growled, gently touching his nose.

They all watched the short blonde boy in the other room. Ed sat quietly in his chair, staring at his hand in his lap. His eyes were downcast, as if he were missing something important.

Catherine finally spoke. "I haven't gathered much from what he said, besides the fact that he's sensitive about his height, doesn't like answering questions, is on the run from someone, and doesn't have any parents. Sounds like he's had a rough childhood."

Grissom looked at her. "I want a search done on any 'Elrics' in the area, and on a place called 'Amestris'. I want to know who exactly this kid is."

Catherine nodded. "I'll get on it." She walked out.

"Brass…"

The police captain sighed. "I'm not going to kill him, Gil, if that's what you're worried about. But we have to keep him in police custody if we want to find out anything about him."

Grissom nodded, then turned his eyes to Ed once again. "I just hope I'm right about him."

* * *

**So? Is it a good idea? I know it kind of sounds like any other crossover fic, but it'll get better, I promise! Like I said, I've got plenty of plot bunnies to keep me going, and all I need is a bunch of reviews to encourage me to update. Come on, you know you want to!**


	2. Secrets and Memories

**I'm hoping this update came fast enough… but I know it didn't. I just have so much to do… Anyway, here's the chapter!**

**EDIT (08/15/2010): Removed the pesky review responses (they just clutter up the story, not that I don't value every review!), and made everything better.**

* * *

Ed stared at his right hand for a few minutes, thinking.

He didn't like this situation. It felt too much like being confined by the military. Of course, he didn't have much of choice in the matter. He'd seen all those uniformed men and their guns, and knew that even with alchemy, he wouldn't be able to get out of here. Right now, at least. Besides, it was glaringly obvious that this wasn't Amestris, or anywhere near it.

That brought him back to his first question: _How did I end up here? _To suddenly wake up in a bush in the middle of nowhere; right beside a crime scene, no less! It made no sense. Unless…

The door opened, and the man he'd punched in the face entered. Ed quickly dropped his hand into his lap.

"You'll be staying in police custody until we can find your legal guardian."

Ed glared into the man's eyes. "I don't _have _a guardian."

He seemed slightly taken aback by that statement. "Who's taken care of you since your mother died, then?"

"No one."

"So you've lived alone for seven years?"

"No."

The man seemed to realize that he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of him. Ed sighed in relief as the man shrugged in apparent defeat. For some reason, he didn't want to tell these people about Al, let alone Winry and Granny Pinako. Maybe it was because he always found it hard to trust people. Then again, considering what he and Al had been through, that wasn't surprising. Too many people had betrayed them before.

Ed stood at the man's gesture, unable to do anything else.

"I'm Captain Jim Brass, by the way," he growled as Ed stepped forward. Suddenly, another uniformed officer came into the room and pulled Ed's arms behind his back, cuffing them. Ed sighed. With all the arm-pulling that was going on, he was surprised that no one had noticed his automail yet. Seemed that people weren't very attentive…

"Just so you can't punch me again," Brass commented grimly. Ed just glared. He didn't tell Brass that if he really wanted to punch him, he could easily get out of the cuffs. He could use that secret to his advantage.

He was shoved forward after Brass, two men on each side of him. They walked silently down an empty hall, then turned right. A minute later, they arrived at a barred door. Brass flashed his badge at the guard on duty, and the door creaked open. Ed followed him through the doorway into what was very obviously a holding area, where people were kept under an officer's eye until questioning was finished.

Ed's cuffs were removed, and he was shoved into a small cell. The door was closed and locked behind him. It was clean and comfortable enough, as far as cells went. There was a small bed in one corner, and not much else. Two walls were solid concrete, while the others were bars that looked out at the guard's area and the other cells.

"See you later, kid," Brass called as he and the other two officers walked out. "Have a nice time." The guard closed the door behind them, and, completely ignoring Ed, sat down and started reading a book.

Ed sighed and sat on the bed. He didn't think it'd be wise to use alchemy to get out of here, especially with an officer sitting nearby with a gun on his belt. Anyway, it'd be interesting to see exactly where all this was going. Maybe he'd be able to find out where in the world he was.

Maybe he'd be able to find his brother.

Ed sighed and laid back on the bed with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes.

_Al, where are you?_

The long night finally caught up with him, and he drifted off to sleep.

There was a knock on Grissom's office door at the crime lab, and Catherine walked in. She sighed as she slapped a folder down on his desk.

"Nothing. There aren't any Elrics anywhere in the US, or even anyone who matches Ed's appearance. All we've got is a huge list of short blonde kids, none with even a remotely close name. Either he's lying, or he's not from this country."

Grissom lifted an eyebrow. "What about where he said he came from?"

"It doesn't exist. That kid lied to us."

Grissom sighed. "He could have. I guess we'll just have to find out." He abruptly changed the subject. "Any leads on the murder case?"

Catherine's face brightened a bit. "We've got some DNA from under our vic's nails."

"Did you ID her yet?"

"Yeah. Aloise Burschtman, age 22. She's from up in Utah. Her family's coming down tomorrow."

"Good. Anything else?"

"We found a carving knife near one of the reactors in the power plant. We managed to lift some prints off it, and we've already confirmed that it's the murder weapon."

Grissom took his glasses off and rubbed his eyes. Finally, they were making some progress in this case. "I guess the next thing to do is to get some DNA and fingerprints from our suspect."

Catherine nodded. "He's still over at the station. Let's go."

Grissom waved her on ahead as he grabbed his coat.

* * *

The guard wasn't in a good mood. The kid in the cell had fallen asleep quietly enough, which had been a blessing, but now, that wasn't the case. He was thrashing about on the bed, muttering incoherently and occasionally saying things like "I'm sorry…". With each passing minute, he got a little louder. The guard had tried to wake him up, to no avail. The kid was obviously locked in some sort of nightmare.

There was a knock on the door. The guard jumped up and opened it for the two police officers and the CSIs.

"I can't wake him up," he explained quickly. "I've tried everything, short of actually going in there and shaking him awake."

"I don't think that would work," Grissom commented quietly. "What doesn't break us in reality kills us in our dreams…"

The guard unlocked the cell door and stood back for the two policemen to enter. Grissom stood in the doorway, with Catherine behind him. They both watched the resigned guard step forward and reach out a hand to waken the boy.

It happened in an instant. The moment his hand touched Ed's shoulder, the teen's eyes flew open. The next second, the guard was slammed against the wall, Ed's right hand around his neck. Grissom blinked and nearly missed the whole thing.

Immediately, there were two guns pointed at the blonde. The guard was completely focused on the face of the one who was choking him. Grissom saw a furious, hate-filled look in Ed's eyes. His teeth were bared in a snarl of anger.

It lasted for only a second. "Let him go and back away," one of the policemen barked at him. It was unnecessary; Grissom watched as the fury and hate in Ed's eyes suddenly leaked away. The boy blinked, and his face went slack. Abruptly, he stumbled backwards, leaving the guard to slide to the floor, gasping for breath. Ed dropped onto the bed and put his face in his hands.

One of the officers knelt down to check on the wheezing guard, while the other kept his gun trained on Ed. Once the guard was found to be fine, except for a lack of oxygen, the officer stood and stepped cautiously toward the blonde boy. Ed didn't resist as his arms were roughly tugged behind his back and cuffed. He stood as they jerked him up, his bangs falling forwards to hid his face. Grissom stepped to the side as Ed was led out of the cell.

The walk to the interrogation room was short and silent. Grissom watched Ed. The boy's head hung forward as he supposedly stared at his feet as he walked.

They reached the room, and an officer opened the door. Grissom and Catherine followed the other officer and the red-coated teen in. Ed was shoved into a chair, and his cuffs were removed. The two CSIs sat on the other side of the table. The door was closed, but one officer remained in the room, as a safety precaution.

Ed was silent as he stared at his hands in his lap. His golden eyes were glazed, and had a faraway look in them. He seemed to have forgotten they were there.

Finally, Catherine spoke. "Why did you attack the guard?"

Ed's head jerked up in surprise, and then he looked back down again. "I… I didn't attack him…" he said quietly. "He just surprised me, is all…" The boy's voice faded into silence.

Catherine raised an eyebrow. "If that's surprise, I'd hate to see you angry," she commented sceptically.

Ed gave a half-smile, but his eyes were sad. "Heh." He went back to studying his hand. Silence filled the room.

Grissom changed the subject. "We found some fingerprints near the crime scene, and since we can't find yours in our database, we need to get them now." He pulled an ink pad and fingerprint paper from his coat pocket.

Ed looked up in confusion. "Fingerprints?"

"Yes."

The teen still looked completely bewildered. Grissom decided to elaborate, since Edward seemed totally clueless about a lot of things.

"Your fingers have oils on them that rub off on everything you touch. Every person has a pattern on their fingers that is entirely unique to them. So, if you touched something with your bare hands, we'd be able to match your fingerprints to you, because the oil rubs off in that pattern." He'd tried to dumb down the explanation as much as he could; the scientific aspect would probably just go way over the boy's head. (1)

Apparently, it worked. Ed suddenly nodded in comprehension, even as his eyes darkened.

Grissom tapped the ink pad on the table. "So can we get your fingerprints?"

"Good luck trying."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. This kid just seemed to bounce back even after seeming completely subdued; he was a stubborn one. "We can get a warrant, if you want."

"Get as many warrants as you want, you won't get any fingerprints from me."

"You don't have a lawyer, so you don't really have a choice in the matter," Catherine sighed. "Either give us your prints or we'll have to go to court over it, and you'll lose." Not to mention that a lawsuit was a major pain, especially over something as trivial as this.

"It doesn't matter," Ed said softly. "And I'm sure you have better things to do with your time."

Grissom decided to change tactics and come back to this issue later. "Do you know what DNA is?"

Ed shook his head, but he was obviously curious.

"It's the basic makeup of a person; basically, the blueprints of who you are, what you look like, how you'll grow." Ed twitched at this, but didn't interrupt. "You get half of it from each of your parents. Everyone's DNA is different, just like fingerprints, and is part of every cell of their body. So, since we found our killer's DNA under the victim's fingernails—"

"—you want to see if it matches mine, right?"

Grissom nodded, prepared for another refusal.

"…Fine."

Both CSIs were taken aback, but quickly recovered. Grissom took a DNA swab from his coat pocket.

"Since your DNA is in your entire body," he explained, "we just need your saliva." He didn't know why he was explaining everything to the kid. He slid the Q-tip out. "Say 'ah'."

Ed obediently opened his mouth, and Grissom leaned forward and swabbed the inside of his cheek.

"See? Simple as that," the CSI commented as he closed the container and sat back, dropping it into his pocket. He hesitated for a moment, then threw caution to the winds. "Fingerprints would be just as simple."

Ed tensed. "I already said no," he growled quietly. "Can't you people take 'no' for an answer?"

Catherine spoke up. "You're just being difficult. You gave us your DNA, so why are fingerprints and different?"

Ed slammed his right fist into the table. "I don't say no just because I want to, dammit!" he shouted. The officer by the door took a step forward.

There was silence for a moment. Ed finally dropped his hand into his lap. The two CSIs stared at the large, fist-shaped dent in the steel table. Catherine opened and closed her mouth several times. Grissom finally spoke.

"Ed…"

The teen was shaking with rage, but his voice was deceptively calm. "Back home, there's this thing called privacy. Where I come from, secrets aren't a crime. If you've got something to hide, you're welcome to hide it, so long as it doesn't hurt anybody. If it only concerns you, no one's going to try and wheedle it out of you. Or at least, no one decent."

"Ed—"

"Sometimes, you've got to keep things to yourself if you want to survive. Some secrets are safer kept tucked away, where no one can find them. Sometimes, the truth just doesn't make sense, or it's too hard to believe. Isn't that right?"

"Edward—"

"You work in crime. There's got to be a lot of sadistic people out there. When you find out the kind of things they do, you wish you hadn't. Everyone's got something they want to hide. Sometimes it's for the wrong reasons, but other times, it's because they don't think people could handle the truth, or there are memories attached to that secret that they'd rather forget…" He trailed off. His anger seemed to have leaked away.

"Edward, let me see your arm."

The boy looked down for a moment, and then sighed. He stood up slowly. The officer at the door put his hand to his gun, but Ed was just taking off his coat. He tossed it on the chair, and then paused for a moment, before removing his black leather jacket underneath. He tossed it on top of his coat and pulled off his right glove.

"Happy now?"

Grissom was dumbstruck. He'd expected metal gauntlets, a body-builder's muscles, anything that would make sense. He'd never expected this. Nothing could have prepared him for _this_.

* * *

Ed had tried to shrug off their demand for fingerprints; he'd thought he'd been successful, and he'd lost himself in the concept of DNA. But the conversation had suddenly taken a bad turn, and he'd tried once more to hold his temper, but, as Al always said, he usually let his actions do his thinking for him. Now the damage had been done, and he had no choice.

* * *

Ed's entire arm was made of metal. It wasn't just some kind of plating on top of his arm, it was completely steel. Grissom could see every bolt and hinge in it. He could see where it joined to his shoulder, a large plate connected to scarred skin. Ed flexed it and twiddled the fingers.

"It's called automail. Full steel prosthetics. There are wires connected to the nerves in my shoulder, which let it move as if it's a real arm. My left leg is the same. I've had them since I was ten. The surgery is torture, enough to make even a grown man scream. It usually takes about three years to completely adapt to it. I did it in one, and I was coughing up blood each night." He watched his fingers move. "Sometimes, there are things you just want to forget. This is one of them."

"Where… where did you get that?" Grissom stuttered, at a complete loss for words.

Ed looked him straight in the eye. His golden ones were filled with an undeniable sadness and pain, along with a flinty determination.

"This is what you get when you go to hell and back, and survive."

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**(1) How wrong he is! Ed's what, a scientific prodigy? **

**Hope you liked chapter two! I'm sorry if it seems slow, and I can't guarantee that the action's going to pick up anytime soon, but it will… eventually… **

**If it's a cliffhanger for you, I'm sorry. It's just such a good ending for a chapter! I'll try to update soon, but there are no guarantees. This month is REALLY, REALLY, REALLY busy for me, so I'll try to write as much as I can. I do try to update weekly, but with two stories on the go and a head stuffed full of other ones… I'll do my best! Arigatou gozaimasu for your patience!**

**(Oh, and I won't demand reviews just yet, since I've been horrible with updating, and I got so many for the first chapter! I love you all!)**

**AkitaFallow**


	3. Escape

**I can't believe the response I'm getting for this fic! I thought, well, since no one's thought of a CSIxFMA crossover, it must not be very popular… But boy, was I wrong! To all my reviewers: since I've had what, 22 reviews for this chapter? I'm going to reply to the reviews directly, because replying to them all in the fic would take up probably three pages… if I didn't manage to reply to someone's review, just let me know!**

**That aside, gomen nasai for the late update! It took me a week to locate my plot bunnies among the melee that is my brain… I've got what, 10 other fic ideas floating around? Anyway, the action starts picking up now, and I hope you all look forward to my updates!**

**EDIT (12/17/2010): Lots to fix in this chapter. Basically just overhauled it enough that it was still workable, but got rid of the silly "let's-all-shoot-Ed" fest that I have NO idea why I put in there. Accursed juvenile mistakes.**

* * *

Grissom and Catherine sat in silence in the lounge at the lab. Both were absorbed in their separate thoughts about the events that had just taken place at the police station. After seeing Ed's automail and sitting in shocked silence for what seemed like eternity, the boy had sighed and offered his left hand for fingerprints. Still in silence, Grissom had rolled each of Ed's fingers on the ink pad and then onto the fingerprint sheet. After that, they had sat, mute, as Ed had put his jacket and coat back on, and pulled on his gloves once more. Since there had been nothing more to say after that, considering the fact that all the questions that the CSIs had wanted to ask had been pushed into the back of their minds, they escorted the blonde back to his cell at the station and returned to the lab. Still in complete and heavy silence.

Grissom was completely absorbed in the thought of Ed's automail. He'd never seen—or heard of—anything like it. It was like a prosthetic limb, but a thousand times more advanced. How could it possibly move like that? If he hadn't seen that it was fake, he never would have guessed. The technology was so advanced, it was nearly futuristic. How could Ed have gotten something like that? And how had he lost his arm in the first place?

Catherine's thoughts were more focused on the things Ed had told them, and whether or not they were lies. She'd been sure he was lying about his name and his country, but now that she'd seen his automail… It was hard to believe that he would be lying after showing them something like that. If something so impossible-seeming was actually possible for him, did that mean that the place he lived could actually exist? A district of some other country, perhaps? The name had certainly sounded foreign. And what had he meant by the last thing he'd said?

The door to the lounge opened, and Greg Sanders walked in. He sighed as he plopped into a chair. "There's no match, either for his prints or his DNA. He's not our guy."

Grissom nodded. He'd had a hunch that Ed was innocent; now they had proof. But why, then, did he have a nagging feeling that there was more to the blonde boy than there appeared?

"I think we should go over and ask him a few more questions," Catherine stated. "There are still things I'd like to know about him. And we still have to find that weapon Brass said he had."

"Then you have to let him go; we can't keep him in custody for too long," Greg sighed.

"I'm afraid that's going to be a problem."

All three looked up at Brass' voice to see the captain standing in the doorway. He didn't look happy; though not many people would have been able to tell his sternly-jovial face from his intensely-agitated face.

"First of all, he's got a bunch of charges under his name from last night, plus assaulting a police officer this morning. He would have been kept at the station until he was tried for them."

Grissom narrowed his eyes. "What do you mean, 'would have'?"

Brass gave him a serious look.

"We have a problem."

* * *

Ed couldn't believe it. Only one day knowing these people, and they'd already gotten more of his secrets than he'd have liked. They knew about his mother, his automail, and his home. Granted, the last two were his own fault, because he'd managed to lose his temper, again. It always seemed that something sparked his anger, and then all hopes of secrecy were smashed to infinitesimal bits. Of course, usually Al was around to stop him from saying something he shouldn't, but his brother wasn't here. Ed wasn't even sure if Al was alive.

A cheery thought, that. And it made it all the harder for him to actually pay attention to what he was saying to these people.

He sat with his head in his hands on the small bed in his cell. The guard on duty kept shooting him dirty looks—not that he blamed the man one bit, all things considered, even if it was annoying—but he didn't pay it any mind. He was impatient and worried.

_Al, where are you? _He wondered to himself. _Did it work? Are you at home with Winry and Pinako, wondering where I am? Or did you follow me here? _

A horrible thought struck him. _Did the Gate take you again?_

He couldn't stand it; his arms started shaking. If Al was gone, then it was all his fault, _again_. _He_ was the one who'd suggested trying to bring their mother back; _he_ was the one who had put Al in the armour; _he_ was the one who had dragged him all over the country and beyond, searching for the Philosopher's Stone; now he could very well be the one who killed him.

The guilt and uncertainty threatened to overwhelm him.

_But you can't be sure, _his sensible—and usually ignored—side said in a voice that sounded disconcertingly like his brother's. _You can't be sure until you get out there and look for him!_

Ed felt a sudden reckless determination seize him. He couldn't find Al if he was cooped up in a police station in the middle of who knows where. He had to get out.

All caution thrown aside, he stood.

* * *

The guard thought the kid was being unnervingly quiet. Usually suspects chatted with him a bit, or slept, muttered to themselves, sometimes attempted suicide—he'd gotten all sorts of crazies in here over the years. After that morning's antics, he had expected the kid to be apologizing or something, or proclaiming his innocence, or anything other than what he was doing. Sitting there with head in hands wasn't normal suspect behaviour. At least, not normal _teen_ suspect behaviour. It would have been less nerve-wracking if the boy had been asking him for a joint and a porn magazine. As it was, the kid seemed almost... _overly_ placid. And that had the hairs on the back of his neck rising.

He looked up from his book when the kid stood. The guard watched warily as the blonde stepped up to the bars and wrapped his hands around them.

"How long do you think they're going to keep me here?"

That was a typical question. The typical reply was ready on his tongue.

"As long as it takes to find out if you're innocent or guilty."

He heard the kid snort and mutter something. It sounded like "Just like the military," but he couldn't be sure. And he wasn't particularly sure if he _wanted _to be, either.

There was silence for a second. Then—

"There's something I have to do, and it can't wait."

The guard snorted. "Well, it'll have to, because you're only getting out of here when you're cleared." He leaned in conspiratorially. "And that'll probably take a very long time, because you've got a lot of charges over your head." He absently rubbed his neck as he said it.

The kid blinked. "…Sorry 'bout that," he muttered. The guard could tell it was something he wasn't accustomed to saying. With a slight smirk, feeling like he'd gotten one over on the teen, he looked away. He opened his mouth to reply, but the blonde spoke again.

"But I still have to go."

He started to scoff at the kid's persistence when he suddenly heard the creak and snap of metal. His head whipped toward the blonde, and he gasped.

In the kid's right hand was the metal bar he had been holding on to. It had been bent and snapped from its place in the cell door like it was a twig.

Listening to long-ingrained instincts that screamed that this kid _was not normal!_, the guard stood and immediately drew his gun.

"Don't move!"

The kid ignored him, and nonchalantly grasped the next bar in line. It snapped off in his right hand like a toothpick. He tossed it behind him. The clang echoed in a room gone deathly silent.

The guard watched as the kid stepped through the hole created, sparing but a second to think that only a tiny kid like him would have fit through. Those golden eyes flashed up to him at that thought, as if the teen could read his mind. They immediately gained a hard, icy glint.

"The accommodations are wonderful, but I've overstayed my welcome," he hissed, his words congenial and his tone anything but.

The guard fired—even though it was completely against regulation, because _damn _this kid was scaring him!—but the kid was faster. He clapped his hands together and dropped to the ground, slamming them onto the floor. The bullet missed him by inches.

The guard barely had time to register his shock before the concrete floor rose up like a tidal wave and smacked him into the wall, pinning him and knocking the breath from him lungs. His wide eyes stared at the blonde now standing before him.

"If I were you, I wouldn't struggle," the hard voice said. "I might have to do something else." The implied threat was not lost on him.

"Wha—what…" the guard sputtered. He was at a complete loss for words; he could feel the cold of the concrete through his uniform, and the uniform weight of it pressing against his limbs, but it just... wasn't possible! Was this some kind of dream?

"I told you, what I have to do can't wait."

The kid clapped his hands once more and placed them on the wall to the right. A blue light shone, and a wind picked up. The guard closed his eyes; when he opened them again, a five foot hole had opened in the wall. He gaped, his mind supplying him with another helpful mantra of _not possible... not possible..._

"See ya!"

The blonde flipped him a cheeky little salute that seemed completely out of place and slipped out of the hole, before poking his head back in, clapping his hands, and touching the floor. The concrete pinning the guard to the wall receded, and he dropped to the floor. When he looked up again, the kid was gone.

He immediately reached up and slammed his hand against the emergency button under his desk.

* * *

Grissom and Catherine followed Brass out to his cruiser.

"What do you mean, he's gone?" Grissom snapped.

"Exactly what I said. He got out of the station. Supposedly he broke the bars of his cell, incapacitated the guard, and blew a hole in the wall, then slipped away before anyone saw him."

Grissom stopped. "What?"

Brass sighed. "We have no more of an idea than you do, Gil, and our main concern right now is finding him."

Suddenly, the radio in the car crackled. The three coworkers rushed to the cruiser and listened.

"Suspect located! We have him surrounded in Lions Memorial Park on the east side! All available personnel are requested there!"

Brass smirked and climbed into the cruiser. Grissom and Catherine piled in the other side when the captain impatiently motioned at them to get in, and they sped off.

It took only a few minutes to get to the park. They climbed out and joined the ring of officers surrounding a large tree. Grissom had a momentary thought that perhaps this many officers was slightly overkill, but didn't say anything. Instead, he looked up, and spotted a flash of blonde and red in among the leaves.

Brass raised his voice. "Come down or we'll be forced to shoot!"

There was a disbelieving noise in the tree. "I've seen dogs with more trigger skills than you guys. I _dare _you." Ed's face became suddenly visible from his vantage point, and Grissom caught the teen's eyes in the middle of a roll.

He blinked. He hadn't remembered Ed being quite so cheeky. But then again, there was hardly any precedent for him to base it off of.

Brass growled, and Grissom glanced over at his friend to see him fingering his gun. But they both knew that it was against regulation. Not to mention that Ed hadn't done anything threatening yet; hell, the worst he'd done was taunt them a bit and climb a tree.

"What, is that all you've got?" Ed's voice taunted. "Some police force! I bet even if I did _this_—" there was a light thump as the blonde dropped nimbly from the tree, before straightening with a flourish, "—you _still _wouldn't be able to catch me!"

The officers around the tree looked slightly startled at the blonde's sudden reintroduction with the ground, but Brass narrowed his eyes and lifted his gun. Before Grissom could even open his mouth to stop the man, he fired.

The bullet intended for Ed's leg never made it.

There was a blinding flash of blue light, and when the spots cleared from their eyes, they all gawped.

The teen was crouched in a defensive position that Grissom probably could have identified if he'd had any kind of martial arts training. His knees were bent carefully, his center of gravity low, and his hands were held in front of his chest, close together, his right arm angled downward.

But the most shocking thing was the foot-long metal blade protruding from his sleeve, a small bullet smoking quietly in the center before falling with an almost audible _plop_ to the ground.

"Now, that wasn't very nice."

Ed changed his stance slightly, but the blade remained firmly poised to defend himself. Grissom saw a hard look in the teen's golden eyes. It sent a shiver down his spine.

Brass growled like a dog. "Why did you run, _again_?" He seemed to be avoiding the real question: Where did his weapon come from? And _how_ did he move so fast?

Ed laughed, a hollow, tortured sound that had no humour in it. Suddenly, his face was completely serious. "I've told you already. I have to do something, and all those bars were just in the way."

"And what is it you have to do, pray tell?" No one expected Ed to answer, but—

"I have to find my brother."

In the single instant as Brass was processing this, Ed's hands came together and hit the ground. Dirt rose into the air among another flash of light and was whipped around by a sudden wind. The officers and the two CSIs covered their faces.

By the time the dust cleared, Edward Elric was nowhere to be seen.

* * *

**I know it's short, and I'm sorry. I wanted to reward you guys for being patient, but I just wanted to end it there, and my plot bunnies are missing… I also know that Ed seems a little OOC, but he's not. He's actually really angry at himself, and he takes his anger out on the people chasing him. He's really guilty and kind of scared, too… I hope I didn't make him a little overboard… Anyway, review, and I'll try and update soon, but this week is the busiest this month for me, so it might be two weeks if I don't start picking up my butt… I'm really sorry! :'( **

**Anyway, hope you liked the chapter… (cowers) Don't hurt me for being lazy!**

**AkitaFallow**


	4. The First Warning

**I can't believe I haven't updated in almost two months… DON'T HURT ME! It took me forever to solidify my plot… believe it or not, I didn't actually have a proper storyline until a few weeks ago… but that's not really an excuse… so much for my one-week update promise… I'm so lazy.**

**Anyway, I've finally decided that this is based at the end of the anime. You'll see why by the end of the chappie. **

**Oh, and I almost forgot! The disclaimer!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Fullmetal Alchemist or CSI: Crime Scene Investigation. They belong to Hiromu Arakawa and Jerry Bruikheimer (sp?), respectively. I do, on the other had, own a cracker and a piece of cheese.**

* * *

Ed held his breath and shrank back into the shadows as the police cruiser made its slow way past. He counted the seconds in his head.

_One… Two… Three…_

In his mind's eyes, he could almost see a light swinging his way, reflecting off of his golden eyes, a shout, the two officers getting out of the vehicle and giving chase once more—

_Five… Six… Seven…_

—Of course, it wouldn't be the first time he was spotted. There had been one time when he'd knocked over a garbage bin in an alley just as a cruiser was passing by. That had resulted in hot pursuit until he'd managed to lose them by throwing himself down a manhole in the middle of the street. Needless to say, he didn't smell very good at all when he'd climbed out at a different place somewhere nearby, but that was simple enough to fix. A clap of the hands, and he was back to normal. Of course, his pride was another thing—

_Ten… Eleven…_

—He'd been very good at avoiding everyone for the rest of the night, but luck always ran out eventually. It was always when you let your guard down and got confident that misfortune decided to slap you in the face for being cocky.

_Fifteen… Sixteen…_

The car was gone.

He released his pent up breath with a quiet sigh of relief. His luck was still intact, as was his freedom.

It took only moments for him to rise from his hiding spot in the doorway of the small Chinese restaurant and ghost across the street. He figured that the officers in the cruiser not seeing him was due to his dark clothes (he'd transmuted his coat black when he'd found out that red was too easy to spot). His traitorous mind suggested the _real _reason they didn't see him: he was _sma—_

He stoically ignored the last bit of that thought.

_I've got to find someplace to hide; all this running is doing me in…_

It was true. He'd been on the move since early that afternoon. His flesh leg was starting to ache from all the crouching and sprinting he'd been doing (though his automail leg was fine, needless to say). He needed somewhere to take a break, if only for awhile.

He darted into an alleyway and blended with the shadows there, freezing as he heard sirens in the distance. It took a minute for his racing heart to calm again after they faded.

_Damn, I'm jumpy, _he thought angrily. _How the hell am I supposed to stay in the background if I'm jumping out of my skin at every turn?_ He shook his head to clear it and continued his way down the alley.

His mind turned back to that afternoon. He'd been treed in a park. _Treed._ If Mustang ever got a hold of that little tidbit… Ed shivered. Perfect blackmail material.

He moved from shadow to shadow for awhile, his eyes darting this way and that, watching for potential threats and places to hide. It took him a few minutes to realize that he didn't hear any sirens nearby. Some time later, he still hadn't seen any more police cruisers. It seemed they had moved off.

Ed sighed in relief. Maybe his luck was finally getting better.

Just then, he rounded a corner and spotted a boarded-up building sitting casually between two dilapidated shops. He slowly crept up to the side of it and peered through a crack in the weather-rotted wood. But for moonlight shining through the gaps in the boards, there was nothing visible inside. He decided to chance it.

He scanned the side of the building, careful to avoid the windows of the surrounding buildings just in case, and then went around to the back. There—a large gap between a board and a window frame. Ed grabbed the edge of the frame and hoisted himself up, wiggling head-first through the hole. It was just big enough for him to get through. He tumbled onto the floor inside, automail and all, and let out a small "oof!" A miniature cloud of years-old dust rose into the air around him.

Once the dust had settled, he looked around. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness around the shafts of moonlight, he managed to make out a large oven against one wall. He moved his eyes to the rest of the room, and could see a long table in the middle of the floor, as well as, on the far wall, a rack filled with pans and oven mitts, rusted and gnawed by mice. There were doors on the right and left walls.

It seemed he'd stumbled on an old bakery. Ed stood and padded silently over to the table, each step causing dust to rise around his ankles. He ran his gloved finger along the inch-thick dust on the table, then examined it. Among the grey were flecks of white: baking flour. He dusted his hands off, then stepped over to the door on the right.

He opened it and discovered a large pantry. There were shelves spanning all three walls from floor to ceiling. They were empty but for bits of packaging and layers of sugar, flour, and other spices. Of course, dust blanketed everything.

It was perfect.

He walked over to the back corner, where there was a gap between the shelves on two walls. Clapping his hands, he touched the floor, effectively clearing the dust within a three-foot radius. He then positioned himself with his back against the wall, facing the pantry door. He slid down until he was sitting comfortably, with his knees drawn up to his chest. He placed his chin on his knees, then wrapped his arms around his legs.

It took only a moment for his body to realize that he'd stopped moving, and it immediately relaxed. Ed suddenly felt like his eyelids were made of lead. He blinked once, slowly, trying to keep awake and alert. He quickly realized it was a useless effort. He'd been running for hours, ignoring his body's demands, and now it was letting him know exactly how long this day had been.

Let them come; he didn't really care at the moment. He was too exhausted.

His eyes drooped shut, and he was asleep in seconds.

* * *

Grissom sat in his office once again, reviewing the evidence they had for the Aloise Burschtman case. He didn't actually see the paper in front of him, though; he was thinking about their fugitive.

He looked over at the digital clock on his desk: 9:04. That meant that it had been about seven hours since Ed had disappeared from the park. Grissom reflected on the apparent ease with which the blonde boy had managed to evade at least twenty armed police officers. He didn't understand in the least what Ed had done to his arm or the ground to get away, let alone how he got out of his cell at the station. The guard was still babbling something about 'magic', which was completely useless to the investigation. _Magic_ did not have a scientific basis; clearly the guard had either been asleep or tricked into thinking he saw what he said he saw. Which was not possibly what he actually saw.

Now didn't _that _thought give him a headache?

The lead CSI had many theories about Ed's escape. Getting out of the cell was the simplest theory: Ed's automail arm could dent a steel table, so why not break hollow bars? The hole in the wall was a different story. He may have had a blade of some sort, but what could cut through one-foot-thick solid concrete that cleanly? A miniature bomb wouldn't have done it, and even if he _had _had something to cut through the wall, he wouldn't have had the time. The guard hadn't been knocked out, or even incapacitated in any way.

It was nerve-wracking, trying to come up with scientifically-sound theories in a very unscientifically-sound situation. It didn't help that the security footage was completely unhelpful; it had gone on the fritz the instant Ed had stepped out of the cell.

Grissom had a few theories about Ed's weapon. It could have easily been up his sleeve, but that would have been found when he was searched, unless the boy picked it up before getting caught up in the park. Or, it could have been some kind of extendable blade hidden in his automail. That was the most logical theory, but Grissom hadn't seen any openings in Ed's arm that a blade could come out of. It also didn't explain Ed's lightning speed at drawing it. The only thing it _did _explain was where his weapon at the plant had come from.

The final theory was about how Ed managed to blow up the ground in front of their faces and escape right under their noses. One way he could have done it was with a set-up, but that would support the idea that Ed had known ahead that he would get away, and that he could lead his pursuers to that exact spot. It was improbable, but not impossible. A more likely explanation would be, once again, the power in the boy's automail arm, but to create that size of a blast would have taken a lot of force, and the position Ed was in just before it happened didn't support it.

He took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. Why was this so hard? Nothing like this had ever happened before; he always had some explanation for every odd thing that turned up in a case. Now, along comes someone who's not even in the books, an enigma that turns up out of the blue, and all his scientific explanations get smashed to bits. Both figuratively and literally.

His musings were interrupted as Brass knocked on the glass door, and then opened it, making his way through the many shelves in Grissom's office, trying to avoid knocking over numerous jarred bugs. He sat down in a chair in front of the lead CSI's desk and sighed.

"Can't find him," Brass said shortly. "For the first little while, we kept catching glimpses of him moving toward the residential areas in east Vegas. We almost caught him a few times. But then, we lost him again around seven, and haven't seen a trace since."

Grissom sighed. "He could be anywhere; Vegas is a big place."

"I know, and there's not much we can do now. It's late. We could send out small patrols for the rest of the night, one or two vehicles, but that's about it."

Grissom nodded and sighed.

At that moment, Sara Sidle knocked on the door and opened it, holding up a paper cup. "Coffee?"

"Please," Grissom replied. Sara stepped into the room and placed the cup on his desk as Brass stood.

"I should probably get going; tonight's gonna be a _long_ night."

Grissom waved him out the door, and Sara followed, closing it behind her.

He sighed and once again opened the Burschtman file.

Only a few more minutes of staring into space went by before the CSI lab secretary walked in with a small envelope.

"This was dropped off just now. It's for you."

Grissom accepted the envelope and slit it open as the secretary left. A single piece of paper fell out. He picked it up. It was printed on regular, everyday photocopy paper, most likely from a run-of-the-mill industrial printer. His eyebrow rose as he read the first few lines.

_Mr. Grissom,_

_You are no doubt aware that a serial killer is on the loose here in Vegas. It's my pleasure to introduce myself. After all, I'm sure you don't correspond directly with many of your criminals. _

_Oh, dear, don't look so surprised. I doubt that it makes any difference. You can try to catch me, but your precious team is far too incompetent. It is fun to watch you blather around, I must say._

_But that's beside the point. _

_Mr. Grissom, this is your first warning. It's _only _a warning, nothing more. Yet._

_You see, we can't have you finding me, now can we? _

_And so, Mr. Grissom, I am asking—very kindly, I might add—that you release all evidence in my file to me. And don't try to play the precious fool and withhold any. That may be very bad._

_Because I know about all of it. Every little detail in this little case of yours._

_I even know about that precocious little child you've picked up and adopted like a stray kitten._

_In that regard, I would ask that you drop all evidence off at the corner of Sunset and Durango, in front of that charming Taiwanese restaurant, at midnight. Of course, I shouldn't have to elaborate on what will happen if you don't._

_Until later._

Grissom snatched up the envelope and flipped it over. The return address read:

_Haha To You_

_123 Incompetent St._

_Las Vegas, Nevada_

_X0X 0X0_

He covered his eyes for a moment, then stood, grabbing the envelope and the letter. He strode out of his office and down the hall to Trace.

Greg was in, getting ready to go home. Grissom handed him the letter and the envelope.

"I want them screened for prints."

Greg looked at him, then down at the letter. Grissom watched as his eyes ran over the lines.

"This guy's either a joker or an over-confident murderer," Greg said quietly after a few minutes.

"I know. And I need his prints."

"You're not going to take him seriously, are you?"

Grissom sighed. "The DA would never approve, so we either risk his wrath or our 'killer's'—" he tapped the letter, "—consequences. The DA's a lot worse, if you ask me. This guy's not getting anything."

Greg nodded, then took the paper and walked over to the fumigation chamber.

Grissom sighed. He really didn't expect any prints, but it never hurt to try.

* * *

_-Dreaming-_

_Ed stood in front of the Gate of Truth, whiteness surrounding him on all other sides. The black doors rose up before him, terrible and ominous. _

I _refuse_ to back down, _Ed repeated in his head. He felt his anger rise, and his voice came with it._

"_I've come to make a deal! Me for my brother!"_

_Silence met his words._

"_Give him _back_! He's my brother!"_

_He felt, rather than heard, a foreboding chuckle._

**Back again, are you…**

_Ed snarled. "Give Al back to me! He doesn't deserve this!"_

**You want him back? Then have him…**

_The doors creaked open, and long black hands shot out and grabbed him. Ed screamed as he was dragged in. _

"_Where are you taking me? Let me go! LET GO!"_

_He watched helplessly as the doors closed behind him._

_Suddenly, he felt a distinct tugging near his heart. He could abruptly see a long blue tendril of light stretching between his chest and where the doors had just closed. With a mighty wrench, the tendril broke free of him. Suddenly desperate, Ed snatched at it as it flew away from him—or him from it?—and managed to grab the very end of it. He pulled it back to himself, and gathered his end in his hands, the other end still stretching beyond the closed doors. He tried to curl around it as gravity suddenly flipped, and he found himself falling backwards into darkness._

Ed sat up suddenly and smacked his head on a shelf. He sat back with a groan and opened his eyes.

There's a certain disorientation that comes with waking up in the corner of a dust-covered pantry when there's only enough light to see halfway across the room. It took Ed a few minutes to remember why he was there, and a few minutes more to recall what had woken him.

"Damn that Gate…" he muttered. Why hadn't he remembered it?

In the underground city, he had died. He knew it, felt it. He even remembered standing quietly in front of the Gate, waiting to pass on.

But Al hadn't accepted that; he couldn't. Ed remembered waking up to see Rose standing over him, looking at him with concern.

_-Flashback-_

"_Edward? Can you hear me?"_

_He looked up, tears running down his face. "Yeah." He ran his hand over his eyes. "What am I crying for? ...Al?" He sat up and looked down at his right hand. It was flesh and blood._

"_He used alchemy to bring you back, Ed," Rose said quietly. "After you died."_

_Ed looked at her. "…The Philosopher's Stone. He used it to fix my body and pull my soul from the Gate…" He leaned forward, his voice tightening. "But then what happened to him?"_

_Rose looked away. It was all the answer he needed._

"_Don't tell me… don't tell me he's gone, Rose…" Ed stood up, his eyes wide. He began calling desperately. "Al… Al! AL!"_

_Suddenly, a baby started crying. Ed looked down at Rose's child, Cain, in her arms. His shoulders slumped. _

"_You'd better get moving," he said to her quietly as she stood. "I hate to ask this, but could you take him to the surface, too?" he asked, pointing at Wrath on the floor. _

_Rose looked at the homunculus, then back at Ed. "But what about you?"_

_He gazed up at the terraces around the room. "I'll destroy this place, down to the last plank, so no one ever gets the idea to create a Philosopher's Stone this way again."_

"_Very well," Rose said after a moment. "I'm sure, whatever happens, you'll find your way out. You've got strong legs; you'll get up and use them, won't you, Edward?"_

_Ed turned back to her and half-smiled, but didn't answer. After a moment, Rose took Wrath and Cain, and walked out._

_-End Flashback-_

He couldn't live with himself if he let his little brother do that. He had to bring him back.

And so he had drawn a huge transmutation circle on the ground and smaller ones on his wrists, chest, and forehead, just like he did that day six years ago, when this whole nightmare started.

He activated them.

Up until now, the time from when he started the transmutation to when he woke up in the bushes, with his automail back and fully clothed, surrounded by police, was a blank spot.

Now, suddenly, he remembered.

The Gate had sent him here. Why? Who knew. Equivalent exchange, maybe? Where? Definitely not Germany, but anywhere else was a possibility. Plus, he could use alchemy here. When? Probably farther in the future, judging by the technology.

There was only one thing for certain: Al was here somewhere, and he had to find him. Ed could simply feel it. He couldn't explain it, but he could feel that his brother hadn't been returned to their side of the Gate.

Ed stood unsteadily from his corner. His flesh leg was numb from being in an awkward position. It felt as if his automail needed oiling, too. He shrugged it off as something he couldn't fix at the moment and stepped through the dust to the door. He cracked it open and saw that it was dawn. After climbing out the window and using alchemy to replace the dust to its former position, effectively erasing all traces of his presence, he walked away.

* * *

Grissom stepped into his office at 8:00 am after reviewing a case with Warrick Brown and found the almost-expected envelope on his desk with the now-familiar mocking address on it. They hadn't left the evidence at the rendezvous, after all. They also hadn't found any prints on the last letter, and so it was unlikely to be a prankster. People who are making a joke usually don't take care to avoid touching the paper they're printing something off on.

He opened the envelope and slipped out the single sheet.

_Mr. Grissom,_

_I'm frankly unsurprised. You didn't heed my warning. Choosing to be difficult, are we?_

_To be completely honest with you, I'm not disappointed. In fact, I'm rather glad. You don't think I'm serious, do you?_

_We'll see how serious I am._

Grissom stared at the paper for a second. Then he slammed it down on the table.

This guy was mocking them; he called the CSI team incompetent. He called _Grissom _incompetent. Shoving his bull in their faces and leaving his little prized kills under their noses.

It took a lot to make Grissom mad.

And this guy had done it.

He was about to stand when he suddenly remembered something.

_I even know about that precocious little child you've picked up and adopted like a stray kitten._

Something clicked.

"Oh, no," he whispered.

They had to find Ed.

* * *

**Yay for updates! **

**And so another cliffie is born. Don't you just love me for it?**

**Look down there. It's called a review button. Y'know, the little purple one that says 'Go' on it? Yeah, that's it. Just press the little button…**

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**Akita**

**[EDIT July 16, 2008] I have changed the Gate scene; I felt it was too OOC, and I had a better idea. It only affects the later plot, which I haven't yet written. But it is a somewhat important edit, so you may want to go back and read it.**


	5. A Lost Kitten

**Here's the next chappie, much sooner than the last! For those of you worried, I am NOT going on hiatus with this fic! …Just to ease some minds.**

**And now, the plot thickens!**

**[EDIT: Someone mentioned that Tim Horton's doesn't exist in the States. I'm going to go with that assumption, since I'm Canadian and don't know any better. :P]  
**

* * *

Ed was hungry.

He couldn't ignore it anymore. It had been hours since he'd eaten. When was the last time? A little meal given to him by the guard back at the station, yesterday afternoon. That was it. And, judging by the sun, it was probably around nine in the morning.

He sighed. Admittedly, he could transmute a meal for himself, but natural food always tasted better.

_I'll transmute something if I can't find anything to eat soon, _he promised to himself.

He was walking through a somewhat crowded square. It seemed to be on the border of the residential area he'd just left; on one side of the square were average-sized houses, with average lawns. Some of them had desert plants scattered here and there to add to the aesthetics. The other side was the beginning of larger shops and warehouses; vendors stood on corners, offering their wares to passers-by; newspaper boys hailed the latest in the world of the famous; crowds of people marched up and down the street (Ed saw more than half of them stream into a building that had a sign marked 'Dunkin' Donuts', which made no sense at all to him. Maybe it was some kind of office?). Fancy cars screamed around the square, full of people anxious to get to work on time.

There was a small patch of grass in the middle of the square. A vendor stood there behind his cart, hawking his breakfast-on-the-run to anyone who was within earshot. Ed got a whiff of the pastries from the cart and suddenly felt like euphoria was going to crush him. His stomach rumbled loudly. He abandoned all thoughts of avoiding capture and ran up to the end of the line at the cart—

And realized he had no money.

He felt suddenly deflated, and cursed all the gods he didn't believe in. Why did things like this always happen to him?

He turned away with his head down and a heavy sigh, kicking a rock lying by the curb.

There beneath it was a small crumpled bit of greenish paper.

Ed picked it up and examined it, noticing the large '1' in two corners.

His heart leaped for joy. _Money!_

He wasn't sure how much '1' could get him. He knew for a fact that '1' in Amestris was worth very little, but they were at war. Maybe it could buy him breakfast…?

He rejoined the queue at the cart. It seemed like hours before everyone before him had gone. Then he stepped forward.

"How much can I get for this?"

The man behind the cart looked up, and it was as if his whole face lit up upon seeing Ed. "Well, young man, you could get this here," he said, pulling out a large pastry covered in a white powder. It smelled heavenly.

"I'll take it!" Ed exclaimed without a second thought. He slapped the bill on the cart and grabbed the pastry like it was his last lifeline to humanity. "Thank you!" he shouted as he ran off, showing exactly how grateful he was by actually remembering his manners. Al would have been proud.

He didn't notice how the sign above the cart said "Pastries: $2.50", or how the vendor grinned unnaturally—almost maliciously—at his retreating form. Nor did he notice that the man immediately packed up his cart, whistling happily as he pushed it out of the square.

* * *

Ed sat down in an alleyway beside a large dumpster, which hid him from view from the street. He unwrapped the napkin around the pastry and inhaled its delicious scent.

Then, in typical Edward fashion, he devoured it within seconds.

He noticed a slight bitter aftertaste, and his mouth felt slightly numb, but he put it down to the fact that it was foreign food. With his stomach pleasantly full, he could better turn his mind to his immediate dilemma.

He had to find out exactly _where_ he was.

The solution was simple: get a newspaper.

And so, without further ado, Ed clapped his hands and placed them on the napkin that had previously held his pastry. When the blue light died down, he held in his hands ten exact copies of the small green bill he had found and used. Then he stuffed them in his pocket and strode purposefully—but watchfully—out of the alley.

He made his way over to the newspaper boy.

"How much for a paper?" he asked in his most nonchalant voice.

"A buck," the kid replied happily.

Ed was thoroughly confused, but he pulled the bills from his pocket and held one out.

"Is this enough?"

The boy gave him a strange look, but nodded and handed Ed a paper. Then he turned once more to the street and continued to hail potential customers.

Ed sighed inwardly. One less thing to worry about; he now knew that one of the bills was equal to 'one buck'. So now he had nine bucks left.

Suddenly, he heard a police siren in the distance. He nearly jumped out of his skin, and would have broken into a run if his prodigy mind hadn't kicked into overdrive instantly. Running would make him too conspicuous; suspicion was the last thing he needed if he wanted to get away clean.

And so, as the siren grew louder, he strode as quickly as he could—without seeming to hurry—back to the alley. As soon as he was out of view, he scrambled behind the garbage bin, for once grateful for his small stature, though he would never admit it out loud.

The siren grew even louder. Ed tensed.

Then it faded away, and his heart nearly leapt for joy. He was safe, at least for a little longer.

He wriggled out from behind the dumpster and flopped down beside it. Then he picked up the newspaper, which was folded in half from being stuffed into his shirt, and looked down at it.

The first thing he noticed was the date: January 4, 2007.

His mind reeled. Could it possibly be that many years later? Where had the Gate sent him?

He glanced at the title: Las Vegas Sun. It didn't tell him much; he already knew that this place—or at least, this city—was called Las Vegas. He had to figure out something he _didn't _know.

And so he began to read.

He read through the entire newspaper, perhaps skipping the classifieds and the crossword (he didn't understand either of them, but he got the gist). Most of the articles he read were about some famous person's scandals, or big winnings at a 'casino', or a murder or two. There was a lengthy article about a war in a place called 'Iraq'; Ed came to the understanding that the President (who seemed to have the power of the Fuhrer in Amestris) kept sending troops over the ocean to 'keep the peace', as he called it. Apparently movements had been made to pull the military out, but George Bush wasn't budging.

It sounded a lot like back home.

He kept reading. He skimmed over an obituary dedicated to some hotel owner who had passed away. When he came to a section devoted to entertainment, he goggled at the technology they had. A computer seemed to be something that could do all your thinking for you, and could act like a telephone and a typewriter at the same time. 'E-mail' was something you used to communicate over huge distances—even around the world—in the blink of an eye.

It was fascinating.

By the time he reached the back page (which contained an advertisement about some hotel called the Pink Flamingo), his head was spinning from all the new discoveries.

And it wouldn't stop.

He frowned inwardly. Then he tried to stand up.

The newspaper slipped from his fingers as he staggered, his vision swimming. He managed to stay up for a full minute, but then dropped to his hands and knees. It felt as if ants were crawling under his skin.

He felt bile rise in his throat. Opening his mouth, he threw up.

He started to shake.

_What's wrong with me?_

* * *

Grissom was taking a walk.

It wasn't a regular pastime for the lead CSI; usually, he would spend his breaks in the lab, doing some overtime research on the latest case. But not today.

So much had gone on in the last two days. It wasn't often that you found a kid near a crime scene who didn't know how he'd gotten there (or so he said), who managed to break out of a police station with an armed officer on duty, and who was probably the next target of a serial killer.

Goodness knew, Grissom needed to clear his head.

And so he went out.

The crime lab was blessedly located in one of the quieter areas of downtown Vegas (if you called sirens, honking horns, music, and the general murmur of crowds quiet), and so it wasn't too bad of a place just to stroll.

He breathed in the somewhat-fresh air and sighed. They had all their teams out looking for Ed; they could take no chances. If the boy was innocent, then they needed to protect him; if he wasn't, they needed to hold him for questioning. Either way, it was imperative that they found him ASAP. The last few hours had been overtime for Grissom, and all he wanted to do was to go home, but he couldn't shake the feeling that something was going to happen, and soon.

He felt a light tap on his arm and looked down. A boy stood there, a piece of paper clutched in his hand and a blue baseball cap jammed down on his head, so that only his chin showed under the shadow created. His arms were long and bony, and Grissom could tell that, beneath his worn blue jeans, his legs were, also.

"What is it, son?" Grissom asked kindly.

The boy silently held out the sheet of paper.

_LOST!_

_Kitten. Golden. Will not come when called._

_Last seen: the intersection of Twain Ave. and Delacour St._

Beneath that was not a picture; instead, there were strange, long black lines, close together. They seemed to be there for no reason.

After that, it read:

_If you have any information concerning this, or have found it, please call:_

_548-9382_

Grissom looked up, and the boy was gone. He cocked his head slightly for a second, then shook it as if to clear it. Turning on his heel, paper in hand, he headed back to the lab, trying to figure out what was bothering him.

Two things hit him at once.

The boy had only been carrying one sheet. Usually, when handing out lost notices, the person would carry at least ten, and tack them up around the street on light posts and fences. But the boy had only had one; there were no notices on the poles and fences to attest that it was simply his last one left.

That in itself wasn't that fishy.

But the phone number was that of the crime lab.

He stopped walking and looked once more at the sheet. No, he wasn't mistaken; that was the CSI phone number. He glanced up again at the words beneath the _LOST!_

_Kitten. Golden. Will not come when called._

_Golden kitten…_

"_I even know about that precocious little child you've picked up and adopted like a stray kitten."_

It couldn't be…

His heart skipped a beat, but he tried not to jump to conclusions.

Of course, it wouldn't be a very big jump.

He had to be sure.

And then a third realization struck him like a slap in the face.

It was an old child's trick, seen in optical illusion books. But could it really be…?

He whipped the paper up level with his eyes, then tilted it backwards until it was almost horizontal.

The long black lines suddenly morphed into letters.

_BETTER HURRY, MR. GRISSOM_

* * *

It took what seemed like hours to dash back to the lab, paper clutched in his hand. He nearly bowled over the secretary in his haste to reach his office, and his phone. He dialled with the speed and precision of a desperate man.

"Hello?"

Grissom's heart leapt at the sound of his old friend's voice.

"Brass, Ed's somewhere around—" he glanced down at the sheet, "—Twain Avenue and Delacour Street."

Brass' voice became sharp. "How do you know?"

"The guy's contacted us again, and I think he's done something to Ed. He's been toying with us, but I think he's serious."

Grissom could almost see Brass' face become deadly serious. "Twain and Delacour, you say?"

"Yeah."

"We're on it."

The line went dead.

Grissom stared at the phone for a minute, then set it down.

_They'd better find you, Ed…_

* * *

Ed's breathing was becoming erratic; it felt as if he couldn't get enough oxygen into his lungs.

_I'm probably going to asphyxiate, _he thought clearly. _What the hell's wrong with me?_

He couldn't stand at the moment; every few seconds, he would retch and spill up more of his stomach's contents, which was very little, considering the fact that his breakfast had already disappeared in the first five heaves.

A shiver ran up his spine, and a pain sliced through his torso as he vomited again. Only yellow acid and mucus came up. He felt giddy.

And still, he could think clearly.

He finally sat back on his haunches, his head swimming as if he'd just spun in circles for an hour. He put his hands on either side of it and squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to get his swirling world to settle.

It didn't help.

Suddenly, he heard sirens drawing nearer, growing louder and louder by the second.

"_Oh, HELL no!" _he hissed through his teeth, standing up as fast as he could, making himself stagger in the wall.

_I've got to get out of here; I can't get away from them when they get here when I'm like this!_

He forced himself to put one foot in front of the other. For a moment, he was disoriented, and ended up staggering out of the alley and into the square. He heard the screeching of tires and looked up to find four police cars, with lights flashing and sirens blaring, pulling up to the curb in haste.

Despite his shaky legs, Ed turned tail and ran.

There were shouts from behind him. He knew that officers had stepped out of their vehicles and given chase.

As his feet pounded on the ground, he suddenly realized that he was slowing down. He couldn't breathe properly. As he rounded a corner, he staggered into the wall. Pushing himself upright, he gulped a lungful of air and urged himself on.

He ran headlong into a tall wire fence.

Feeling around it with his hands, he desperately tried to find a hole, even though he knew there was none. Jumping it was out of the question, when he couldn't even run properly.

"No, no, no, no…" he muttered desperately to himself, as his movements became more erratic and his world flip-flopped.

"Stay where you are!" he heard a familiar voice shout from behind him. He turned quickly and caught sight of a balding head.

Suddenly, the street turned sideways, and his legs gave out underneath him.

Everything went black.

* * *

Brass had seen the kid stagger around the corner, and put it down to desperation. He followed, and found Ed frantically running his hands up and down a wire fence.

"Stay where you are!" he shouted.

Ed whipped around and stared, his eyes wide. Brass had only a second to take note of his dilated pupils and shockingly pale face before his eyes rolled up into his head and he collapsed.

There was a moment of shocked silence.

Brass stepped forward and crouched down by the boy's prone form facedown in the dirt. He touched his shoulder and got no response, so he flipped him over onto his back.

The kid's breath was rattling in and out erratically. He was shivering, and when Brass felt his face, it was cold and clammy. He was unnaturally pale. Brass felt his pulse. It was quick and uneven.

"Somebody get an ambulance!"

* * *

Grissom arrived just in time to see Ed being loaded into the back of the ambulance. A breathing mask was fitted over his face as the paramedics hoisted the stretcher into the vehicle.

He spotted Brass among the officers watching the scene.

"What happened?"

Brass shrugged, a concerned look on his face. "I don't know. He just collapsed."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah. We're lucky we had you tip, Gil, or we probably wouldn't have found him."

Grissom nodded.

Brass sighed. "Do you think our killer _wanted _us to find him?"

That was a good question. "I suppose we'll find out if he contacts us again. Until then," he continued as the ambulance sped off, "I think we should see what's wrong with Ed."

Brass turned back to his car. "Meet you at the hospital."

* * *

**Aren't you glad? It's not REALLY a cliffie, is it? **

**I hope you all enjoyed this chappie! I will get around to replying to people's reviews for the last one… eventually… I'm so slow and lazy… **

**I worked hard to get this out for you guys by this weekend, so I hope you all enjoy it!**

**Oh, and I **_**might**_** be able to get another update out next week, before I leave for two weeks, but it's unlikely, judging by my current patterns… gomen nasai!**

**Oh, all reviewers get a digital cookie, and reviewer #100 gets a chocolate bar. Just cause I said so! All readers who don't review are scorned.**


	6. Warning Number Two

**It's out! Here's chapter six! I DID IT! I got it out before my holiday!**

**And now, the (not so) long awaited chapter!**

* * *

Ed had a vague sensation of being jostled. It felt as if he was lying on something and being… pushed. He tried to crack open his eyes, but they seemed to be glued shut. He also couldn't seem to get enough air into his lungs.

A sharp pain stabbed him in the abdomen. His back suddenly arched, and he heard shouting all around him. He felt pressure on his flesh leg and arm.

Then he lost consciousness again.

* * *

By the time Brass and Grissom arrived, Ed was in the emergency room. They could hear doctors shouting to each other, their voices muffled by the thick swinging doors.

The secretary at the ER desk was far calmer than the situation merited. _Though_, Grissom thought after a moment, _this is likely a day-to-day occurrence for her._

She quietly told the two men to take a seat in the chairs along one wall after establishing that they were there for the boy who had just gone into Emergency.

Brass growled as they sat down.

"What the hell did that kid manage to do to himself?" he muttered.

"I have no idea," Grissom whispered back, trying to keep his voice low. The room was empty but for the secretary, and very quiet, but for the muffled sounds from the ER. It had the air of silence that most hospitals tend to have, and it had a way of making you wince at even the slightest noise you made.

It was actually rather perturbing.

After a moment, Brass spoke again.

"So how did the guy contact you?"

"A note."

The other man frowned. "How did he manage that without getting caught? And still getting it to you in time?"

Grissom sighed. "He disguised it as a 'lost' notice. By the time I realized what it was, the kid that gave it to me was gone."

Brass glanced at him sharply. "You mean it was a _kid_?" he asked incredulously.

Grissom nodded.

Brass leaned back in his chair, his cheeks puffed out as he sighed. "I guess there's something more going on here than just a murderer. Using a _kid_?" Another thought seemed to occur to him. "Do you think he actually wanted us to find Ed in time?"

"…I don't know."

The two colleagues sat in silence for a long while.

* * *

Allan Speighn was not a happy man.

He had seen his share of strange cases, he had to admit. Being a doctor at a Las Vegas hospital, it was to be expected. Angry housewives, cheated gamblers, gangs, and a general population of sadists tended to breed more than just average medical emergencies. Stabbings and shootings were the most common, while near-drownings, -strangulations, and general near-death experiences came in a close second. Poisonings were rare, but not unheard-of. Just recently, he'd had to revive a man who had been presumed dead after being given snake venom while he had a stomach ulcer. Not a pretty sight, with the man being taken straight from an autopsy table to a hospital bed.

But never, in all his years of medicine, had he seen something like this. And he'd seen a lot.

He strode through the double swinging doors and out into the reception area. His eyes immediately latched on to the sole occupants of the room, besides the secretary.

"Mr. Grissom. Captain Brass," he greeted them, holding out his hand. The two men he'd just addressed stood and shook it one after the other.

"How is he?" Grissom asked as soon as they sat down.

Speighn sighed. "He'll live." Both men looked relieved.

"What happened?" Brass asked.

"He was poisoned. We found traces of _aconitum napellus _in his system."

Grissom nodded. "Monkshood."

"So you're familiar with it? I admit, I haven't seen many cases with monkshood in a long time. It's an outdated poison, but for those who know its uses, it's very effective. We still use it in medicine once in awhile, for various things, but always in very tiny doses." He looked straight into Grissom's eyes. "By all rights, the boy should be dead. Any longer and the poison would have spread further and killed him."

There was a moment of silence. Then Speighn spoke again.

"But that's not what I came out here to talk to you about."

Brass snorted. "Something else the kid managed to do to himself?"

Speighn's eyebrow twitched, but he didn't bother replying. He spoke once more to Grissom.

"Are you aware that he has two metal limbs?"

Both men nodded. Speighn was slightly bemused.

"Do you have any idea how he got them?"

Grissom shook his head. "He wouldn't tell us anything. He won't even say _where_ he got them. Or what happened to his original arm and leg. He calls it automail."

Speighn sighed again. "If you could find out, that would be remarkably useful in the future. Perhaps they're custom-made. If so, I want to find the creator. Think what this could do for amputees!" He was suddenly overcome by an almost childish excitement, like a cat in a field of scratching posts. "If it's possible, I'd like to examine this 'automail'."

Grissom and Brass looked at each other. Then Grissom spoke.

"You'd have to ask Ed when he wakes up. They're his limbs, after all."

Speighn deflated slightly. He waved a hand in the air. "Yes, I suppose you're right." He sighed a third time. Then he switched topics. "We're going to have to keep Ed here overnight, to see how he holds up. You can come back tomorrow morning to pick him up, or contact his parents."

"He doesn't have any, or so he says," Brass growled.

"Well, even so, we can't keep him here."

"We'll be back in the morning," Grissom asserted firmly while standing. "When Ed wakes up, tell him what happened. He's not a child, and he deserves to know."

"Will do, if you're sure."

"I am. Thank you, Dr. Speighn."

"You're very welcome," Speighn replied, shaking Grissom's offered hand as Brass stood as well.

The two men began to walk out of the doors, but Brass stopped.

"If he starts causing trouble, just call. He's not an easy kid to deal with."

Speighn lifted an eyebrow, somewhat skeptical as they left. How much harm could one—very _small_—boy do?

* * *

Grissom arrived back at the crime lab and immediately sought out Greg.

"Did you get anything off of that notice?" he asked.

Greg looked up from the microscope he was peering through.

"Nope. It's from the same printer as before, and there aren't any fingerprints on it. But I did get this."

He snatched the notice from under the fumigation hood and put it facedown on the table.

"Watch."

He picked up an ultraviolet flashlight and turned off the overhead lights. Each of them donned a pair of UV glasses, then Greg shone the light on the paper.

A note was scrawled on the back in shaky, hand-written letters.

_Warning number two, Mr. Grissom. I'm a patient person; I'll give you two more._

_Better watch out once your time is up..._

"Invisible ink," Grissom muttered. Then he stood up straight (he'd been leaning over the paper). "I want a handwriting analysis done on this. Maybe he's gotten sloppy."

Greg nodded. "I'm on it."

Grissom exited the Trace lab and made his way to his office. The latest note from the killer had made him feel extremely tired. Tired of being mocked. Tired of chasing a shadow. Tired of feeling like Ed's condition was his fault.

He needed a coffee.

* * *

White.

That was the first and only sensation Ed got when he slowly opened his eyes. His throat felt raw, and his stomach was churning. There was some sort of breathing apparatus in his nose, forcing oxygen into his lungs.

But all he saw was white.

For a moment he thought he was blind. But then, he turned his head ever so slightly and saw a window.

So he wasn't blind.

And there was only one other explanation.

_Damn all hospitals! Damn the whiteness and the spotlessness and the damned SMELL!_

He sat up abruptly, ignoring the stab of pain in his middle, and looked around.

All of the walls were white. The floor tiles were white. Even the bed sheets were white. The closed door was plain wood, fortunately. He'd half-expected it to be painted white.

A wave of dizziness struck him, and he laid back again. He felt a slight tug on his left arm, and looked down.

Something was taped to his wrist. Something that had tubes running off it and tugged on his skin. Something that looked suspiciously like…

_A needle._

The door opened, and a nurse walked calmly in. She stopped when she saw that Ed was awake.

"I see you're finally up, Mr. Elric."

Ed would normally have said something along the lines of "Where exactly am I?", but what came out was—

"Get this damn thing out of my arm!"

The nurse looked taken aback for a moment, then saw what Ed was pointing at.

"What, the IV? It's giving you digitalis to help fight the poison in your system, and a few drops of morphine to dull the pain and stop you from having another seizure."

This information hit Ed like a ton of bricks. _Poison? Seizure? What the hell happened to me?_

He repeated that question to the nurse.

She sighed. "I suppose I should get the doctor to answer that. Wait here."

_Not like I'm going anywhere, _Ed thought as she walked out.

It took a few minutes for the nurse to return with a balding doctor in tow.

The man held out his hand, and Ed lifted his automail arm and shook.

"Hello, Mr. Elric. I'm Dr. Speighn."

Ed just looked at him, waiting.

The doctor sighed. "Yesterday morning, you were found with monkshood, a deadly poison, in your system. We don't know who poisoned you, and frankly, it's not this hospital's job to find out. Mr. Grissom is working on that as we speak.

"You were sent here by ambulance and taken into Emergency immediately. You had a seizure as we were trying to figure out what was wrong. We ran a quick blood test on you, and discovered that you'd been poisoned. Monkshood is a dangerous drug. The amount you had in your system could kill a grown man in an hour."

Ed was shocked, to say the least. _Kill a grown man in an hour? _He _was_ smaller than the average 16-year-old (though he'd never admit it aloud)…

He was lucky to even be alive.

Dr. Speighn was still talking. "I'd like to do an assessment on you, see how you're doing. If you're fine, I'll probably let you out of here by this afternoon." He glanced at the watch on his wrist. "Mr. Grissom should be here soon, I assume. He said he would come by this morning."

As if on queue, a second nurse stepped into the room.

"Dr. Speighn, a Mr. Grissom is here to see you and Mr. Elric." She gestured at Ed. "Shall I let him in?"

"By all means," Dr. Speighn replied.

The nurse turned on her heel and disappeared out the door, only to reappear a few moments later, Grissom in tow.

"Hello, Ed," Grissom smiled. "Glad you're feeling alright."

"Here to throw me in a cell again?"

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "No, I'm here to see if you're still alive after breaking out the first time. Care to tell me how you did it?"

Ed crossed his arms, the IV tugging on his wrist, and looked away, clearly saying 'I'm not telling _you_'.

Speighn watched the exchange, intrigued, if his expression was anything to go by. _Probably never had one of his patients break out of a holding cell before, _Ed thought, smirking inwardly.

Grissom sighed finally and turned to Speighn. "How is he?"

"I was just about to assess that," the doctor replied.

"Do you want me to step out?"

"No, I just need to get a sample of his blood."

And he pulled a needle from his pocket.

Ed did as all of his military colleagues and his brother would have expected, and what Dr. Speighn was extremely surprised to see.

He panicked.

"Keep that the hell away from me!" he cried, scrambling into a corner of the bed.

Dr. Speighn paused. "What?"

"You heard me! You're not sticking that damned thing in me!"

Speighn sighed. "I'd appreciate it if you didn't use that language around me. And if I don't get a blood test, you won't be allowed to leave."

"I don't give a damn! _You're. Not. Sticking. That. In. Me_!"

* * *

Speighn had dealt with patients who hated needles before, but never one that hated them with such a passion. And was so willing to fight against it.

It took five nurses and Grissom, each holding one of Ed's limbs (with two on each of the boy's automail arm and leg), to finally get some of his blood.

The doctor sighed in relief as he removed the needle from Ed's left arm. The boy was shouting obscenities at the top of his lungs, intent on showing them all _exactly _how angry he was.

Speighn decided that it was time to retreat. He fled out the door.

* * *

Ed was fuming. Grissom sat in a chair on the other side of the room, and, frankly, the teen was affording him amusement.

Ed was lying on the bed (which had been raised into a near-sitting position, as all hospital beds can be) with his arms crossed in front of his chest. His knees were drawn up under the sheets, and a vein pulsed in his forehead. One of his eyes was almost twitching.

He was the picture of an irate teenager, albeit a hospitalized one.

Grissom had to hide a smile as Ed began to mutter a stream of swears and angry exclamations. He caught something along the lines of "Damn hospitals…" in the middle of enough colourful language to create a rainbow.

It was almost a disappointment when Speighn returned.

"He's clear," the doctor said as soon as he entered the room. "I'm surprised at how fast you healed, Mr. Elric. Frankly, I'm impressed."

"Does that mean I get to leave?" Ed growled.

As soon as the doctor nodded assent, Ed reached up and ripped the breathing tube out of his nose. Then he thrust his wrist forward.

"Get this the hell out of me."

Grissom had never heard such a cold voice coming from such a small teen. Ed's eyes just dared Speighn to disobey.

The doctor (almost meekly) stepped forward and carefully extracted the IV from Ed's arm.

Ed immediately threw the sheets off himself. Then he realized he was in a hospital gown.

"Where the hell are my clothes?"

Speighn opened a cabinet under the bed and extracted Ed's black clothes and coat.

"We would have cut these to get them off you, had your condition been any worse. You're lucky that we have a nurse who realizes the value of leather clothes," Speighn said as he handed them to Ed.

The teen just glared and stomped into the bathroom.

* * *

Speighn was almost grateful to see Grissom and Ed leave.

After demanding his combat boots from the doctor, Ed had shot a glare at him and strode out of the room, Grissom in tow.

He officially took back his thought that Ed wouldn't be any trouble; the boy seemed to be a mixture of anger, obscenities, and icy-cold glares, all grown to adult proportions and stuffed into one small package.

Speighn released a sigh when he saw the last of Ed's blonde braid disappear out the door.

* * *

At first, the drive back to the crime lab was silent. Finally, Grissom decided to try and break Ed out of his sulk in the back seat of the SUV.

"You're going to be coming back to the lab for awhile; we've decided that, since you say you don't have any parents, the CSIs are going to make a joint effort to keep an eye on you, even if it's against protocol."

Ed snorted. "Joy."

Grissom frowned, but continued. "We think that our serial killer will try to use you again to get at us. If you haven't figured it out already, he's the one who poisoned you. So, we've come to the conclusion that you'll have to spend most of your time at the lab, and probably spend whatever else at Catherine's." He looked in the rear-view mirror at the blonde in the back. "That is, if you behave."

Ed didn't respond as he glowered out the window.

Grissom sighed. "It's better than the cells back at the station."

The boy just grunted.

He gave up all attempts at conversation from there on in. By the time they got to the lab and he led Ed in, he was wondering if the teen's attitude would last much longer. It was infuriating, even for Grissom.

_I wonder who's going to try and kill him first, our murderer or Catherine?_

* * *

**NO CLIFFIE! (does a happy dance) Aren't you all just so happy? I wanted to let you off for a little while, since I'm going away for two weeks, and I plan on having a bunch more excellent cliffhangers for you in the next few chappies… (evil grin)**

**Unfortunately, I probably won't even reply to the reviews from chapters 4 and 5, because I never got around to it… if I find the time, I will, though. Even though it won't be until after I get back.**

**Anyway, I worked REALLY hard (probably six hours straight) to get this out for you before I left! I have no clue why, but it was really hard for me to write this. Maybe it's because I've missed the last three FMA episodes, and haven't managed to watch CSI in weeks… I hope no one's OOC! **

**So, I expect to see a whole bunch of awesome reviews in my inbox when I get home! I'll see you all on the 26****th****! (Don't get into too much trouble without me! XP)**


	7. Getting Things Together

**Hello, my little duckies! Have you missed me? Come on, you know you did! I had a wonderful holiday, if any of you are wondering. I'm sorry about the slow update since I got back, but school started, and I was working for the last week of summer, and I've been bogged down with homework since school started… **

**So on with the story!**

* * *

Grissom told Ed to sit and wait in the lounge when they arrived at the lab. He attempted to get some kind of promise from the boy to stay there, but all he got in response was a grunt as Ed flopped sideways into a chair and pulled his boots up onto the seat. As an extra precaution, Grissom asked the secretary at the desk to keep at least half an eye on Ed through the glass wall for a few minutes, while he got things together.

Of course, 'getting things together' was always far more complicated than it seemed.

He heard the other man's footsteps behind him as he made his way to his office. _And so it begins, _Grissom thought.

"Good morning, Ecklie," he said deferentially, but inwardly, he was sighing resignedly. "What brings you here this early?"

"You know perfectly well what I'm here about, Grissom," Conrad Ecklie, the day shift supervisor, replied tightly as he kept pace with the CSI.

"I'm afraid I don't. There are no regulations I've broken, that I'm aware of."

Ecklie made a noise that could only be compared to a snort. "Maybe you should reread them, then," he growled.

Grissom decided it was time to stop playing dumb. "Having Ed here isn't against regulations, you know."

"He's a suspect in a murder case, Grissom, and unless you want to be hauled up in front of the DA, I'd suggest you put him in a cell at the station until he can be properly questioned."

Grissom arched an eyebrow. "If you hadn't noticed, Ed has become the victim here. If anything, he's just a material witness. And, I don't think putting him in a cell would do any good at all, much less make him want to share his life's secrets with us."

Ecklie was getting agitated. "You know as well as I do that he's suspicious, if not outright dangerous. You've become personally involved in the case, and I'm of half a mind just to put you on probation here and now!"

Grissom kept his voice matter-of-fact. "He's got no home that we know of, no family besides a brother that he barely mentioned and seems to have gone missing, he's just been discharged from the hospital after being specifically targeted by a serial killer and poisoned, just for being involved in all of this, and it's quite clear that the cells at the station aren't going to be able to hold him. And every one of the CSIs is 'personally involved', as you say. You can't very well put us all on probation. So you tell me what we do with him."

Ecklie's lip twitched, but he remained silent. For the moment.

Grissom continued. "This is the only solution that's even got a chance, if we don't want to alienate him further. He's hardly likely to give us anything if he's defensive."

"He's hardly _trustworthy_, Grissom!"

"He trusts _me_, Ecklie." It was true. He'd seen it in Ed's eyes. Just a bit, but it was there. Maybe there was something about Grissom that Ed could relate to, but whatever the reason, he hadn't shown the lead CSI the same hostility—or at least, not quite as much hostility—as he had everyone else.

Ecklie glared. "So refusing to tell you anything counts as _trusting _you, now?"

Grissom was tired. He really was. All he wanted to do was go home and go to bed; he'd spent all last night at the lab, working on another case. He'd been doing _hours_ of overtime in the last two days. His usually bottomless well of patience was about to run dry.

"What do you suggest I do?" he snapped impatiently. "Throw him out on the street, to be easy pickings for our criminal? If you haven't noticed, that didn't work so well last time. We almost lost our only lead. Now, I'm suggesting the least volatile method to keep Ed from blowing up and running off, and you think I should be treating _him_ like the criminal? We CSIs aren't gods, Ecklie. Sometimes you have to take the path of most resistance and live with the consequences. You're always saying we should focus on the case; well, now I'm doing it. So, if you'll excuse me, I have to organize some things." With that, he walked off, leaving Ecklie to stare after him, somewhat shocked.

Sara caught up with him as he entered his office. Grissom sighed heavily as he sunk into his chair.

"Never thought I'd hear a sigh like that from you, Grissom," Sara remarked lightly. "I thought you'd gone home."

"No," he replied tiredly, "I went to pick up Ed."

"Oh. So now he's sitting in the visitor's lounge for you to finish things here, with only a secretary to watch him, even though he's only just left the hospital." Sara lifted an eyebrow, then looked at him closely. "_And_ you've just had a run-in with Ecklie, haven't you?"

Grissom frowned. "You're entirely too perceptive, you know that?"

Sara smirked. "I learned it from you." Then she got serious. "So, you want me to get everyone before they go home?"

"Please," Grissom sighed.

She turned to walk out.

"Hey, Sara?"

She turned back almost too quickly, a hopeful gleam in her eye. "Yeah?"

"Gather them in the conference room. I don't need them all in here."

Sara's eyes lost their sparkle, and her shoulders sagged disappointedly. "Yeah. Wouldn't want them disturbing the… uh…" she glanced around the room at the shelves stacked with jars, "…bugs."

"'A human being must have occupation, if he or she is not to become a nuisance to the world,'" Grissom quoted.

"…I see…" Sara replied, though she didn't really get it at all. "Aristotle, or something?"

"No. Dorothy Sayers. A mystery writer back in the early twentieth century."

Sara raised her eyebrows. "Oh." She turned to leave once more, then looked over her shoulder. "I left Brass with Ed, because I thought he might get into some trouble. The secretary's hardly enough supervision." Then she strode out the door.

Grissom stared after her.

* * *

There was a light tap on the glass of his office. Grissom's head jerked up to see Nick Stokes standing in the doorway.

"You coming, or what? We're all waiting for you."

Grissom blinked, then looked down at the closed folder he'd been staring at absently. He took of his glasses, rubbed his eyes tiredly, then stood.

"Jeez, you're really out of it today, Griss," Nick commented, his eyebrows raised, as they made their way down the hall. "I hope you're going home to sleep after this."

Grissom just grunted, running his hand over his face.

"Catherine's about ready to throttle you, you know. She promised Lindsey she'd be home before she left for school."

Grissom sighed. It was hard for Catherine to hold down the graveyard shift at the lab and still make time for her daughter. He took a glance at his watch. "Well, it's only quarter to eight. I'll make it quick."

"Whatever you say," Nick replied dryly as he opened the conference room door.

Grissom's CSIs were all gathered there. Sara Sidle, Warrick Brown, Greg Sanders, and Catherine Willows all looked up at him expectantly, the last also glaring.

Grissom took a seat at the end of the table as Nick sat beside Warrick. "So, now we've got Ed, I need you all to try and keep him occupied somehow when he's here. Show him what you're doing, explain things to him, tell him what he can and can't touch, anything. We don't need him running off again."

Greg perked up. "So I can show him the Trace equipment and everything?"

Grissom smirked. "By all means, brag about your knowledge. Show off a little."

The younger man flushed and grinned sheepishly.

"Is that all?" Catherine snapped wearily. "None of _you _have to deal with a teenage daughter."

"No, we don't," Grissom asserted, "but we _do _have to take care of a teenage material witness while he's at the lab. You only need to make sure he's not deciding the streets are a better place to be when he's not here."

Catherine sighed dramatically. "So I have to take him today?"

He raised an eyebrow in typical Grissom fashion. "I assumed you gathered that from the paperwork I filled out for you last night."

Her lip twitched. "I really don't need a delinquent in my house, Gil. Lindsey was bad enough last year."

"Any problems, just call."

Catherine sighed in defeat. "Fine. Can I go now?"

Grissom gestured towards the door, a smile playing on his lips. "Shall we go meet our 'delinquent'?"

* * *

Ed was hardly surprised when Brass walked into the lounge and situated himself in a chair near the door. He was also unsurprised when the silence in the room became palpable. Relations with this man had been bad from the moment they met.

Ed continued to study the activity through the glass to his right, where a man and a woman—presumably a couple—were talking with a police officer. A teenaged girl sat beside them, pouting. The discussion escalated as the parents became increasingly agitated. Ed couldn't hear a word they said, but he got the gist of it. It seemed as if the officer was questioning the couple about the actions of the girl, obviously their daughter. Finally, the father stood and strode out of the room and past the lounge. Ed caught a glimpse of his face, and saw righteous anger there.

_Wish my father had ever cared enough to get angry over accusations against us, _Ed thought resentfully. _Maybe if he'd stuck around long enough, he would've at least had the chance. _Just thinking about Hohenheim left a bitter taste in his mouth.

* * *

"Having fun?"

Ed looked over at Brass, a slightly confused look on his pale face.

"Watching them," Brass elaborated.

Ed shrugged, looking back out through the glass. "Is this a regular occurrence here?"

"Well, people generally don't like being questioned, let alone accused, and this is a crime lab. So yes. More often then you'd think."

The blonde grunted quietly, but didn't reply.

"So, what exactly happened yesterday?" Brass threw the question into the silence, not really expecting an answer.

Ed snorted. "I was poisoned. I thought you already knew that. Wasn't it kind of obvious?"

"Yeah, but how?"

The boy gave him a glare that would have had any officer thinking twice about Ed's motives. But Captain Jim Brass wasn't just any officer. He wasn't intimidated.

"I'd rather not talk about it."

"Did you at least _see _the guy?"

"It was morning. I was tired. All I saw was a red hat, and maybe a bit of a beard."

"What colour?"

"Maybe grey. Or maybe white. I don't _know_," Ed growled, throwing up his arms in exasperation.

Brass frowned and examined the teen more closely. Now that he looked, he noticed that there were dark circles under his eyes, accentuated by his too-pale face, and he looked in desperate need of a proper meal and a long, natural sleep. His whole posture screamed 'I'M TIRED'.

"You should get something to eat, you know," he commented. He tried to convince himself that it wasn't out of concern for the teen, but to keep Catherine off his back about it.

"I'm not hungry," Ed muttered darkly.

Brass decided to let it drop, but only because that was the moment Grissom and Catherine walked in.

* * *

Grissom sighed in relief when he entered the visitor's lounge and found both occupants in one piece. He'd half expected them to be tearing each other apart, but they were sitting quietly on either side of the room. Of course, that didn't change the fact that you could have cut the tension with a knife. A very large, sharp knife. It was almost suffocating.

"Hey, Brass. Thanks for watching him," Grissom said as he and Catherine walked through the door. The police captain stood quickly, a look that could almost be described as relief on his face. Ed didn't even glance up, but continued to stare out through the glass wall. "Catherine's taking him home now, so could you get him ready?"

Brass lifted an eyebrow. "What's there to get ready? He looks ready enough to me."

Grissom sighed. "At least give us a minute."

He drew Catherine aside as Brass started saying something to Ed. Pulling a small bottle of pills from his pocket, he handed them to her.

_-Flashback-_

_Dr. Speighn sighed in apparent relief as the bathroom door closed behind Ed._

"_You know, it's been a long time since I had a patient so willing to fight a doctor, Mr. Grissom," he commented wearily. "Just thinking about him makes me tired."_

_Grissom nodded in agreement. "He's definitely a handful. I wonder how Catherine's going to deal with him."_

_They both glanced at the door as they heard a thump and an angry curse. Grissom raised an eyebrow. Speighn raised both._

"_You think he's having trouble?" the doctor asked._

"_Maybe."_

_Neither man made a move for the door. _

_After a second, Speighn opened his hand and presented Grissom with a small bottle of pills. _

"_Give one of these to him at every meal. There are still traces of poison left in his system, but not enough to warrant keeping him here. Just keep an eye out for him. Like I said, he _did _heal remarkably fast, but that doesn't mean the danger's gone."_

"_Will do," Grissom replied. He slipped the bottle into his pocket as Ed stormed out of the bathroom, demanding his boots._

"_Shall we go fill out your release forms, Mr. Elric?" Speighn inquired lightly as he fetched the boots from beside the closet. _

"_Where's my watch?" Ed glared at the doctor. "I know I had it; and it's not in my pocket now."_

_Dr. Speighn looked puzzled for a moment, then remembered. "Ah, your pocket watch. It's with your personal effects. Well, you could say it _is _your personal effects, considering it's the only thing you had. Do you want to go get it?" _

"_What do you think?" Ed snapped testily, shooting a glare at the doctor and striding out the door. Grissom and Speighn followed._

_The watch turned out to be a large silver instrument with a dragon curled among a hexagon and a diamond moulded on the front. Ed snatched it from Speighn's hand before Grissom could see any more._

_The doctor slid a sheet of paper across the desk. "If you could sign here, Mr. Grissom, we can release Mr. Elric to you."_

_Grissom signed the paper with a flourish and shook Speighn's hand. "Till next time?"_

_Speighn smiled tightly. "Let's hope it's not too soon, though I would like to get a look at his automail sometime."_

_Grissom shrugged. "We're running late right now; I need to catch Catherine before she goes home. Maybe I'll bring him back in a few days."_

"_Can we _go_?" Ed demanded. "I want to get out of this damn hospital."_

_Grissom and Speighn spared a moment to roll their eyes at each other, then the CSI and the teen walked out._

_-End Flashback-_

"Could you give Ed one of these each meal? It's something the doctor at the hospital gave me, because he's not completely recovered."

"Absolutely," Catherine nodded, taking the bottle. The white pills inside rattled cheerily. She read the label and raised her eyebrows. "Atropine? You mean he was poisoned with wolfsbane?" (1)

Grissom nodded.

Catherine's eyebrows went up another notch. "And he's walking around in under a day?"

The lead CSI shrugged. "Dr. Speighn said he healed unnaturally fast, but he could still have a reaction of some kind. He's not in the clear yet."

Catherine dipped her head in acknowledgement.

"Hey, Cath, you ready?" Brass asked, striding over. "I thought you wanted to get home quick."

She blinked, then remembered. "Oh, right. Lindsey."

"Better get going," Grissom commented, quirking an eyebrow. "Try not to kill him, okay?" he added, noticing that Ed was standing and slowly stretching. There was a definite air of weariness around the teen.

Catherine's lip twitched. "I'll try not to. If I do, you can charge me with homicide." Then she turned on her heel and strode to the door.

"Coming? Or will I have to drag you?" she threw back at Ed. He looked up at her, then shot a look at Grissom and followed.

Grissom smiled. That look was loaded with meaning, the most prominent being:

_What have you gotten me into?_

* * *

The first impression Ed got as he followed Catherine out of the lab was that she was remarkably like Riza Hawkeye. The same stride, the same air of command… though she looked much less threatening than the First Lieutenant, largely because of the lack of a gun on her hip.

Down the first few halls, Ed had trouble keeping up with her. His legs just wouldn't work properly. The long, even strides he was used to taking had turned into small, stumbling ones. His entire upper body hurt like hell, and stretching his legs sent little twinges up to his stomach. His throat was ragged, and he realized that he was extremely thirsty.

It was almost imperceptible at first when Catherine slowed down, but suddenly he found that, instead of stumbling a few feet behind her, he was suddenly walking beside her, and the pace was no longer punishing. He sighed inwardly in relief.

"You okay?" Catherine asked worriedly, a look of concern flitting across her face.

"I'm fine," Ed managed to grit out. He forced himself to slacken his grinding jaw. He didn't need pity.

He was relieved that she let it drop, and the rest of the walk to her car was silent.

* * *

Catherine frowned as she watched Ed slump into the back seat of the car, his face filled with relief. Obviously, walking was difficult for him at the moment. She felt concern squeeze her heart at the thought.

"Seatbelt," she commanded as she slid into the driver's seat. She glanced into the rear-view mirror in time to see a look cross Ed's face that said, 'You want me to do _what_?'

She turned in her seat and looked him in the eye. "You don't go anywhere in this car if you're not wearing your seatbelt, Ed. So put it on. Now."

The teen sighed in defeat and twisted to reach over his right shoulder for the seatbelt strap. He froze for a second, wincing slightly as pain crossed his features, but it was gone in the blink of an eye. A second later, Catherine heard the click of the seatbelt being clipped into place, and Ed was glowering sullenly out the window. Her concern escalated a few more notches.

"That's better," she muttered as she turned forward and started the engine.

* * *

It took about fifteen minutes, according to the digital clock on the dashboard, to reach Catherine's house. A large yellow vehicle—Ed presumed it was a bus of some kind—was just pulling up in front of it.

As they parked in the driveway, Ed saw the door of the house open and a girl with long, straight blonde hair falling in front of her shoulders (2) step out. She tossed a lock over her shoulder and hoisted a backpack onto her back.

"Who's that?" Ed asked suspiciously.

"That's Lindsey, my daughter. She's about your age. Didn't Grissom tell you about her?"

Ed's eye twitched. The lead CSI had said nothing of the sort. He hadn't known he'd been sharing a house with a _girl_. The only girl he'd ever stayed with was Winry, and they'd been childhood friends. But a complete stranger? And extremely pretty, to boot.

He blushed suddenly at the thought. _What the hell am I thinking?_ He was eternally grateful that Catherine had turned off the engine and stepped out of the car to speak to Lindsey. He concentrated on forcing the heat out of his cheeks.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Catherine wave as Lindsey climbed onto the bus. Then she turned back to the car. Frowning, she pulled open the door on Ed's side, nearly causing him to topple out of the vehicle, had his seatbelt not held him in.

"You coming, or do you want to sleep in there tonight?"

The flush crept back into his cheeks, and he growled in response as he jabbed his thumb into the seatbelt's release button. The strap slithered over his torso, the clip tapping against his automail as it whisked past. He swung his legs to the right and climbed out of the car, stepping gingerly but trying to make it look like he was moving naturally. If he gave her any reason to be concerned, he knew that it would gradually morph into pity and general mothering. She was that type of woman.

"I'm fine," he snapped, batting away her offered hand. He didn't need someone to lean on. He never had.

The trek up to the house seemed eternally long. The three steps up to the door were the hardest things to negotiate, but Ed suppressed a grimace and forced his legs to move. This sent tiny spasms of pain up his legs, but he strove to keep from wincing.

Finally, they were through the door. Ed heaved a huge sigh, at least in his head.

"Well, this is my house," Catherine stated. Ed nearly snorted. _Obvious, much? _"I'll show you around, though there's not much to it."

Ed barely paid attention as she led him through the kitchen, the living room, and the basement. Thankfully, she led him to the bedrooms next.

"This is my room," she pointed out as they passed the master suite. "And this is Lindsey's room." She indicated a closed door. "Don't go in there unless she says you can, if you care about your health at all."

Ed thought she was kidding, but one look into her eyes told him that she was completely serious. He shivered. Lindsey sounded a lot like Winry. In fact, now that he thought about it, she _looked _a lot like his mechanic, too.

The edge of Catherine's mouth twitched in a ghost of a smile. She took a few steps, then opened the next door down the hall.

"This is the guest room; it'll be yours for now. If you don't keep it clean, you lose it. Then you can sleep on the couch."

Ed edged past her into the room. The walls were painted baby blue, which made his stomach churn, but everything else had a simple and plain air about it. He found himself instantly drawn to it. It was just the kind of room he would have in his own house (besides the paint job, of course). A bed, a dresser, a night table, a desk, and a closet. All of plain wood, but functional. No ornate carvings or tapered edges.

"I like it," he commented, mostly to himself. Suddenly, his eyelids grew very heavy.

Catherine still stood in the doorway. "Do you want anything to eat?"

"I'm not hungry," Ed replied, glancing over his shoulder.

"Are you sure?"

He didn't respond. After a moment, Catherine left. Ed heard the faint click of the door closing, and sighed in relief, ruffling his bangs with his breath. _Finally!_

He shed his coat and was about to toss it over his shoulder when he remembered Catherine's warning. Shaking his head at the folly of it all—_imagine,_ having to keep a clean room!—he draped it over the edge of the desk. Then he flopped onto the bed. Before he could even burrow under the covers, his eyes closed, and he sank into the blissful emptiness of sleep.

* * *

Catherine peeked into the room a few minutes later to find Ed snoring softly on the bed. She smiled lightly, shaking her head. Stepping up to the end of the bed, she gently tugged off his boots, placing them at the foot of the bed.

Then she ghosted noiselessly up beside him, as only a mother can, and undid the clasp on his black jacket. She rolled him onto his side slowly, lightly pulling the left sleeve off his arm. Ed let out a small grunt, but remained asleep. Catherine reached over to his other side and grasped the cuff of his right sleeve, and deftly slid the whole jacket out from under him.

Ed's right arm flopped out of the sleeve, and Catherine spent a moment staring at the gleaming steel. How had such a young boy gotten a prosthetic like that? And how had he lost him arm and leg, anyway?

_Guess I'll just have to ask him, if he's willing to tell me,_ she thought. But that would have to wait; Ed still didn't completely trust them, and she knew it.

She sighed quietly and folded the jacket, placing it on top of Ed's coat on the desk. Suddenly, a whole new question presented itself.

_Wasn't his coat red on Wednesday?_ (3)

She pondered that for a minute, but couldn't be sure. She turned back to the bed and gently pulled the covers out from under him, then tossed them over him. His hand instantly latched onto the blanket, dragging it up to his chin.

A smile played on Catherine's lips as she went to the window and tugged the blinds shut. Then, making slightly more noise than a butterfly's wings, she stepped out of the room, silently closing the door behind her.

* * *

**Footnotes:**

**1) I have done my research (explicitly; I spent HOURS looking up everything so it's accurate), and monkshood is also known as wolfsbane, aconitum, or aconite. And I researched all of Ed's reactions to it, so that's accurate, too.**

**2) I seriously couldn't find a picture of Lindsey anywhere, so I'm just going to wing it with her appearance. I can't seem to be able to catch the episodes that have her in it, even though I watched a marathon. If there are any extreme-hardcore CSI fans out there who happen to know what she looks like, PM me!**

**3) I just randomly chose the date January 4****th**** for the date on the newspaper, and then I figured out that it corresponded perfectly with the days I wanted to do (you'll find out next chapter). So, the Wednesday was Jan. 3****rd****, if you haven't already figured that out.**

**Some lovely parental fluffiness at the end there! That was fun to write; I'm grinning from ear to ear. It's just so **_**cute**_**!**

**This is the longest chapter I've ever written, you know? It's fourteen pages! I just couldn't end it anywhere… and I thought it would be short…**

**I realize that I never acknowledged reviewer #100! I can't go back and count down, so… reviewer #100, whoever you were, have a chocolate bar! And now—I'll stick to this!—reviewer #200 gets TWO chocolate bars! **

**This chappie was so much fun to write! But you know what's more fun? Reading your guys' lovely praise and comments! So, just press the little button, and I'll be happy forever! (At least, until the next chapter!) Flames will be used to light the fires of my inspiration! ;D**

**Akita**


	8. Revisiting Regularity

**I have no excuses. I have no reasonable explanations. I just have a chapter that has been waiting for far too long to be updated for some unfathomable reason. I can't even try to explain myself away, because that'd be pointless. And for that, I can't apologize enough. I have been a very irresponsible author, and I know I've let more than a few of you down. I've received so many PMs asking me to update over the last two years (two years? Holy crap…), and yet they seemed to fall on deaf ears. I'm so, so sorry for that!**

**Finally, finally, I've forced myself to get my head out of my butt and get a move on. Hopefully, this stupid hiatus (yes, I will call it what it is, for obviously that's what happened) will stop. I am older, more mature, and hopefully a little wiser.**

**Please, enjoy it. And once again, I am extremely sorry for my stupidity.**

* * *

Ed opened his eyes to fading sunlight streaming through the curtains over the window. He knew a moment of disorientation before he remembered. Waking up in the hospital, the drive back with Grissom, waiting for Catherine and eventually going to her house. Then falling asleep as soon as he touched the bed.

Sitting up and rubbing his eyes tiredly, he suddenly realized he wasn't wearing his jacket. A quick wiggle of his toes revealed that his boots were gone as well.

_Al must've taken them off while I slept, _he thought, sleep still fogging his mind. _He always does that…_

Like a physical blow, he remembered that Al wasn't here. He was who knows where in an unknown world. He gritted his teeth.

_I'll find you, Al. Don't start thinking I won't._

Glancing around the room, his eyes fell on his coat folded neatly and laid across the desk, with his jacket on top. Consequently, he noticed that he was only wearing his undershirt.

A sudden flush crept up his cheeks. Catherine must have come in and taken them off for him, like he was a little child!

"I'm not _little_," Ed growled to himself, then swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood. The room swam slightly and blackness threatened at the edges of his vision, but it settled after a moment. He sighed, then snatched his jacket from the desk and shrugged it on. The pain in his stomach was still present, and he ached monstrously, but it was a far cry from the pain he'd felt before he went to the hospital.

He eased the door open and stepped unsteadily into the hallway. Drawing up the house's layout in his mind's eye from the tour he'd been given—this morning, was it?—and headed towards the kitchen. He could hear soft voices drifting from it as he turned the corner.

Catherine was standing by the counter, evidently just finishing with making dinner, if the casserole dish she was holding was any indication. Lindsey was sitting at the small table, a glass of a dark, slightly bubbling liquid in her hand and a colourful magazine spread in front of her.

The conversation stopped suddenly as he entered the room. Catherine's eyebrows rose momentarily, then settled back down again. She placed the casserole dish in her hands on the top of the stove and took off the oven mitts on her hands, plopping them beside the stove. That simple action reminded him painfully of his own mother. She'd finish pulling a pie out of the oven, then take off her mitts and slap his hand playfully away from the hot pastry—

_Stop thinking about that! _he commanded himself angrily. In an effort to distract himself, his eyes landed once more on Lindsey, who'd returned to reading her magazine. That was worse.

_Why does she have to look so damn much like Winry?_ he growled inwardly, averting his eyes and suddenly realizing that Catherine was talking.

"—did you sleep?"

Ed looked up at her. "Fine." Speaking made him realize that he was voraciously thirsty; his voice was appallingly weak, almost a croak, and to speak felt like he was dragging sandpaper up his throat from his stomach. "D'you have any water?"

Catherine nodded briskly and turned to the sink, deftly snatching a glass from the shelf above her head and filling it with water from the tap.

"Have a seat," she said, more of a command than a request, as she turned back. Ed sat across from Lindsey, almost feeling relieved at getting off his feet, and took the proffered glass. Tipping his head back, he downed the water in a few gulps, his throat stinging as he swallowed.

"Slow down, you'll be sick," Catherine commented as she took the glass from him and filled it once more. "Drink it more slowly."

Ed looked at the glass as she placed it in front of him. He could feel the water he'd just drank sloshing unpleasantly in his all-too-empty stomach. He sighed as he watched the clear liquid settle, then wrapped his hand around it and picked it up. Only after taking a sip did he notice Lindsey's eyes on him.

"What?"

He hadn't meant to sound rude, but he must have come across as such, because Lindsey immediately rolled her eyes almost imperceptibly, snatched up her magazine, and gave it a little flip as she opened it in front of her, effectively blocking Ed's view of her.

He heard a small sigh from behind him, and looked up to see Catherine standing by the fridge, eyes on her daughter. When she noticed Ed looking, she met his gaze.

"Are you hungry for anything?"

At that moment, Ed's stomach gave one of its customary growls. His lip twitched in a sheepish smile.

"I'll take that as a yes," Catherine smirked. "Unfortunately, you can't have anything huge, because you're still recovering. Anything against toast?"

Ed sighed quietly. He didn't mind toast, of course, but… it was toast. For dinner. And that casserole smelled absolutely _heavenly_.

Catherine noticed the look on his face. "Sorry, but until we're sure you can keep it down, you can't have anything bigger. Toast's always a good way to start. Anyway, if you ate something more and got sick, I'd have to bring you back to the hospital."

He scowled. Toast for dinner—_only_ toast for dinner—may have been distasteful, but his hatred of hospitals far overrode it. He didn't want to go back _there_.

"Whatever," he muttered. Catherine raised an eyebrow, then turned back to the fridge, grabbed a loaf of bread, and stuffed two pieces into the toaster. As she did this, she spoke to her daughter.

"Lindsey, put that magazine away and get out some plates."

Lindsey's eyes reached for the heavens as she dropped her magazine—it said _"6-Teen"_ on the front—haphazardly onto a counter and snatched up three plates from a cupboard, placing them a little harder than necessary onto the table. Meanwhile, Catherine snatched the now-browned toast from the toaster and dropped them onto the plate in front of Ed, followed by a small white pill.

Ed looked at it in curiosity bordering on disgust. "What's that?"

"Atropine," Catherine replied briskly. "You have to have one at every meal. Doctor's orders."

Ed regarded the pill with distaste, but decided not to comment. Carefully picking it up, he threw it to the back of his throat and downed the glass of water. He thought he saw Catherine surreptitiously quirk a smile.

"Do you think you'd be able to handle a glass of milk?" she asked.

Ed responded a little too quickly. "No."

Catherine's eyebrows shot up her forehead. "You sure?"

He grimaced. "Yes."

"Alright, if you say so." With that, Catherine turned her back on him and picked up the casserole dish, then returned to place it on the table, and sat down. Lindsey followed her lead and flopped into her chair.

Ed gazed disconsolately at the two plain pieces of toast on his plate, then at the mother and daughter diligently dishing out a delicious-smelling casserole. He sighed discontentedly, then picked up the toast and took a bite.

* * *

An hour later, while Lindsay was in the living room watching TV and Catherine was washing the dishes after commanding him back to bed, Ed found himself kneeling over the toilet bowl, unceremoniously—but silently—emptying the contents of his stomach. It heaved as the two plain pieces of toast he'd eaten came up. After a minute, he was simply dry heaving, but his stomach wouldn't calm. Finally, after what seemed like eternity, he felt like he'd be able to stand safely. Carefully, trying not to attract any attention from the two other occupants of the house, Ed wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet.

A knock sounded on the door.

"Ed? Are you alright?" Catherine's voice asked.

He responded immediately. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"You sure?"

Ed felt slightly irritated, even though he knew very well that it was just concern. Couldn't she just leave him alone so he could finish in here and go to bed? "_Yes._"

"Well, just ask if you need anything." Her tone made him think she knew more than she was letting on.

Ed waited until he heard the clinking of plates in the kitchen that signified that Catherine had returned to her job, then washed his hands and quietly opened the door, slipping out into the hallway. He tiptoed down to his room, closing the door behind him, and immediately felt weariness pull at him. He kicked off his boots, pulled off his jacket, then sank onto the bed and closed his eyes.

* * *

Catherine heard the bathroom door open quietly, then, a few seconds later, another door in the hall close. She sighed as she continued to fight the food baked onto the casserole dish.

She was worried about Ed. He'd been very quiet after dinner—almost too quiet, even compared to what she'd already seen of the boy. She knew something was wrong, and she had a good idea as to what it was. But she couldn't _do _anything. Ed was so stubborn; she could see it in his eyes, and it reflected the same sort of headstrong attitude that Lindsay showed. Maybe even more so. If she had to guess, she'd say that Ed's stubbornness was backed by experience with very persistent people.

She frowned and grabbed the dish scraper from behind the sink, attacking the casserole once more.

_Typical; I'm sitting at home, doing the housework and worrying about mysterious teenagers on my night off. Gimme an apron and I'll make the perfect nanny. _

She sighed, then gave the dish up as a lost cause, leaving it in the sink to soak overnight and rinsing the remaining dishes.

* * *

It was later that night, around 11:00, that found Catherine just climbing into bed when she heard the bathroom door slam. She sighed heavily, knowing exactly what it was.

Slipping out of bed and pulling a shirt over her head and a pair of pants over her feet, she stepped out of her room to the bathroom. The unmistakable sounds of retching reached her through the door.

She knocked.

There was absolute silence.

She knocked again.

"Ed, I know you're in there. Open the door."

There was a quiet shuffling, and she heard the toilet flush. A minute later, the door opened slightly, revealing Ed's pale and drawn face.

"What?" he demanded, not quite rudely.

"Out," Catherine commanded, and Ed sighed, pulling the door open all the way and stepping into the hall. He'd removed his jacket, and his automail arm was clearly visible. He stood in front of her, looking up at her expectantly with his left hand on his hip.

Even though she was a CSI, not a doctor, she could clearly see signs of exhaustion and illness in his face. It was pale and drawn. If she looked closely, his skin looked slightly green.

"We're going back to the hospital," Catherine stated firmly, her tone brooking no argument.

Ed's eyes widened almost comically. "I'm not going back _there_!" he replied hotly.

A minute later, Ed was strapped into the vehicle, a tick in his eyelid and his arms crossed over his chest, as they pulled away from the house.

* * *

Had Allan Speighn been a religious man, he would have prayed fervently that he was hallucinating. Or that he was entirely mistaken as to what he was seeing.

Unfortunately, Speighn was neither religious, nor a recent convert (though the last few moments had tried his agnostic policies to the limit), and so, when he caught a glimpse of bright blonde hair and black leather through the nursing station's window, he merely sighed in defeat, affixed a friendly smile onto his face, and stepped through the door.

"Mr. Elric, Ms. Willows," he greeted the two standing before him, trying to force some professional enthusiasm into his voice and meeting with mild success. "What brings you back here?"

In truth, he could easily guess why they were here. Catherine had a determined look about her, though her face was pinched slightly in concern. Ed looked pale and haggard, but his defiance showed through plainly in the set of his jaw and the way his arms were crossed in front of him. Clearly, Catherine had forced Ed to return here, whether he liked it or not.

"He can't keep anything down," Catherine told him, ignoring the heated glare Ed sent her way. "So I brought him back."

Speighn nodded, knowing that, as a doctor, it was his duty to take care of his patients, no matter what.

Of course, that didn't necessarily mean he had to _like _it.

"Why don't you come this way, Mr. Elric?" he asked in the warmest tone he could muster. He'd been about to go home. About to climb into bed with his wife and sleep away the tension in his sore muscles. But no, of course one of his patients came strolling in the door just before his hours expired. And it had to be the one patient he'd hoped not to see again.

This was why he absolutely hated the evening shifts. Obviously they were cursed.

Ed looked ready to throw a tantrum worthy of a five-year-old and dash out the door. It seemed that the only thing that stopped him was Catherine's firm hand propelling him forward, past Speighn and into the bowels of the hospital.

With a thinly-veiled sigh, Speighn followed after them.

* * *

For the second time, Ed found himself lying in a hospital bed against his will. He felt like shouting. Or screaming, maybe, if that would get the nurses off his back. Honestly, it wasn't his fault he was puking his guts out every time he tried to eat anything. Why did they want to punish him for it?

"Mr. Elric, please don't be difficult."

Ed felt another tick forming over his eye. He wasn't being _difficult_, he was being _reasonable._ They couldn't honestly expect him to _willingly _let them stuff a giant needle into his arm just because he couldn't hold down a little food.

"I already told you, no!" he growled. He tried not to let himself to feel bad about getting mad at her for trying to do her job; after all, wasn't there something about informed consent with this type of thing? Wasn't he _allowed _to refuse the IV if he wanted to?

He glared defiantly at the nurse, who was standing next to his bed with a cotton swab in one hand and that… _thing_ in the other. They stared in silence at one another for a full minute. Ed tried not to let his mind contemplate the weary look on her face or the bags under her eyes. Obviously she just wanted to get this over with and go home. He was preventing her from finishing her job and clocking out…

"If you don't take this IV, you're not going to get the nutrients your body needs," she finally sighed. Then, she suddenly adopted an almost condescending tone. "And without those, you probably won't grow any more."

Any sympathy he felt for her was suddenly gone.

_Cheap shot!_

Ed felt the tick over his eye come into being full force as he sat bolt upright.

"Who're you calling so small that he'd think a cotton ball was boulder?!" he ranted, throwing his arms in the air.

There was suddenly a wicked gleam in the nurse's eyes. "I didn't say it in those words, precisely, but I suppose they would work."

Ed fumed. He couldn't do anything, since that _thing_ was still held in her hand. Glancing over, he saw Catherine sitting in a chair off to the side, covering her mouth. It looked like she was trying not to laugh. She was _enjoying _this!

He growled. "I'M NOT SHORT!"

* * *

Catherine hadn't expected this, but it was, admittedly, incredibly amusing.

"You may be in denial, Mr. Elric, but that doesn't change the facts."

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING A MICROSCOPIC BACTERIUM ON THE UNDERSIDE OF A SEA SNAIL?!"

She was almost tempted to cover her ears, sure the rest of the hospital was hearing this. But she didn't, simply because that would ruin half the fun.

"If you'd just let me get these nutrients into your system, you wouldn't have to worry about being small." The nurse's eyes were dancing as she stepped closer with the IV needle.

"STOP CALLING ME SMALL! AND GET THAT THING AWAY FROM ME!"

Catherine was immensely surprised that Ed could amplify his voice so much after all he'd been through. In fact, she was surprised his tiny lungs could support that volume at all, _especially _after being poisoned and throwing up so much. Unfortunately, it posed the problem of possibly waking up other hospital residents. It _was _past midnight.

"Ed, just take the IV already," she ordered, trying to keep the humour from her voice.

Ed turned his blazing gold eyes on her. "NO! I WON'T! AND STOP THINKING ABOUT ME BEING SMALL!"

She blinked, and then couldn't help herself. She burst out laughing.

His eye twitched, and in that moment of distraction, the nurse grabbed his arm.

"GAH! LEGGO OF ME!" He tried to pull his arm away, only to realize she had an iron grip on it. "STOP IT! AL, TELL HER TO—"

Suddenly, there was silence. Ed was deathly still.

The nurse took that opportunity to carefully slide the IV into his arm and taped it in place. He didn't even flinch, his head bowed, eyes shaded by the long blonde bangs in front of his face.

After a moment, sound seemed to come rushing back into the room as Dr. Speighn stepped in through the door, pausing as he saw them.

"What exactly is going on?" he asked, his face betraying his consternation at the scene.

"Nothing, sir," the nurse said curtly, dropping Ed's arm—albeit carefully—and stepping towards the door. "Just giving Mr. Elric his IV."

Speighn grunted as the nurse made her way from the room, and then he turned confused eyes on Catherine. She shrugged.

Glancing back at the bed, she realized that Ed had lay down and rolled onto his side, his back towards her. The IV tubes sagged almost pitifully from beneath the blankets, as unmoving as the boy they were attached to.

"Ed…?" Catherine ventured. He didn't move or acknowledge her.

She looked up, her eyebrows drawn together in concern, and Speighn met her gaze before beckoning her out into the hallway. She stood slowly and stepped towards the door. Taking one last glance at the little lump under the bed covers, she bit her lip, before closing the door softly behind her.

* * *

**I'm sorry it's like a filler, and it's short, but I… I don't know. Sorry again. **

**Anyway, I need to note that I edited the fourth chapter in the Gate scene, for those of you who read this about a year or more ago. It should help change some things and make it feel more accurate. I'm also in the process of reading the manga, which helps.**

**I'd also like to note, very belatedly, that Phantom Sunsong was my 200****th**** reviewer, and gets two virtual chocolate bars. :) A little bit of happiness in the midst of all my stupidity.**

**For this chapter only, I'm completely opening it up to flames. I deserve it. And, if anything like this ever happens again, I give you all free reign to poke me, prod me, beat me soundly over the head with a baseball bat, destroy my ear drums with virtual rants of outrage, whatever you decide. Because I **_**cannot**_** let my idiotic procrastination ruin your guys' enjoyment of this story.**

**Until next time (hopefully soon),**

**AkitaFallow**


	9. Dead Ends and New Trails

**First of all, I have to say, I'm so glad I haven't been getting a ton of reviews saying I'm a total jerk and a terrible writer for keeping you guys waiting (even though I deserve it). I know I promised more regular updates, but school overwhelmed me, and it's been nearly a year again. But, I can now say that I've had a summer (mostly) free to write. We'll see how things turn out in fall when I head to university.**

**I've gotten some constructive criticism, which I will address at the end of the chapter. Otherwise, enjoy!**

* * *

_Poke._

Twitch.

_Prod_.

Twitch.

"And you say your _friend—_"

"_Yes_," Ed insisted for the fourth time, his left eyebrow twitching once more.

"Extraordinary…" Dr. Speighn muttered, before falling into a series of inaudible mumbles as he continued to poke his annoyingly nimble fingers into the joints of Ed's automail arm, bending it back and forth. For the third time, he asked Ed to wiggle his fingers, and watched, seemingly enraptured, as the steel limbs moved fluidly back and forth.

"Are you done yet?" Ed asked after waiting impatiently for the man to ask something _intelligent_ for a change.

Speighn blinked at him for a moment, undeterred. "Can you take it off?"

His eyebrow twitched—again. Maybe it would become a permanent flaw in his facial anatomy. "Of course I can take it off, how else do you think she built it?" he grunted, rolling his eyes.

Speighn seemed immune to his scorn. "Is it hard?"

"Not really." _Hurts like hell to put it back on, though,_ he thought, but didn't say that out loud. It would be like admitting a weakness. And he wasn't weak. _Weak_ implied _small_, and _small _implied—

Luckily, the doctor derailed that thought before Ed could start berating himself for thinking it.

"Would you mind…?" The look on his face was so hopeful, so undeniably, stupidly, childishly hopeful that Ed had a hard time seeing in him the stoic doctor who had so politely asked for permission to examine his automail.

With a very put-upon sigh, Ed reached up and pulled a lever, wincing ever so slightly at the unpleasant feeling of detaching the nerves connected to the arm. Speighn, his hands already on it, caught the automail before it could fall.

Ed watched as Speighn hefted the steel. "This is surprisingly heavy," he commented. "You move it so easily, you wouldn't expect it. I wonder what sort of effects this might have on someone's body..."

Ed didn't like where this was going.

"Mr. Elric, how long have you had this 'automail'?"

"Five years, give or take. Why?" He felt his eye prepare to twitch again.

Speighn pursed his lips. "You have a very good muscle mass, but this…" he fingered the joints of the steel limb. "Has it ever occurred to you or your… mechanic that the weight of it may have stunted your growth?"

It was a perfectly innocent question—to anyone else.

* * *

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL HE COULD BE CRUSHED BY AN ELECTRON? WHO'S A MICROSCOPIC DUST SPECK ON THE BOTTOM OF A CENTIPEDE'S SHOE? WHO'S A—"

Speighn retreated to the corner of the room as Ed continued to throw his hand in the air, his face red. The only thing stopping him from jumping out of the bed and attacking the doctor was the IV in his arm.

He was sorely tempted to hit the boy over the head with the steel arm in his hands, just to shut him up.

But he didn't (as it would break his Hippocratic oath, mind you; not because he didn't want to). Instead, he waited patiently until the (surprisingly creative) accusations burned their way out of Ed's rather hot-headed system. It took about half a minute for him to start sputtering out, and finally he was simply muttering death threats under his breath.

By that time, two nurses had run through the door.

"What's the matt—oh." The first nurse stopped when she spotted a red-faced Edward on the bed and Speighn across the room, eyebrow raised.

"I suppose we'll be going," the second nurse commented, grabbing the first nurse's arm and making her way out of the room.

Speighn's second eyebrow followed the first up his forehead, and he turned to smirk at Ed. "Seems you've made a reputation for yourself already," he said nonchalantly.

Ed merely steamed quietly on his bed, and Speighn's smirk widened as he returned to his examination of the boy's fascinating metal limb.

* * *

Grissom was flipping through the autopsy report for Aloise Burschtman. His experienced eyes skimmed over the extraneous details—physical identification characteristics, mostly—and picked out the important details they needed.

It seemed as though, despite the fact that the cause of death was haemorrhaging from multiple stab wounds, the body was riddled with injuries. There were a number of post-mortem wounds caused by blunt-force trauma—most likely from a steel-toed boot, as far as Dr. Robbins could tell—but also a myriad of bruises inflicted up to three days before the woman had died. Which meant that the killer had to have kept her somewhere for at least those three days before killing her. They needed to find that hideout.

Unfortunately for them (and perhaps fortunately for the late Ms. Burschtman), the killer was too smart—or not quite sick enough—to have raped her. Like all the other young women they'd found, there was no physical evidence on the body to give them any hint as to who the perpetrator was.

"Hey, Gris."

He looked up to see Nick leaning against the doorway.

"Nick," Grissom greeted him. "What do you have to me?"

Nick waved a sheet of paper. "The results for the handwriting analysis. And Greg finished testing the blood under the vic's nails; no trace of foreign DNA. It was her own."

Grissom pursed his lips as he took the sheet offered to him. "So still no lead on the identity of our killer."

"Nope," Nick sighed. "And the knife came back clean, besides the prints. The blood was the vic's, and there wasn't so much as an epithelial to get off of it."

"So our only hint so far is the partials on the knife, which may or may not belong to the perp." Grissom sighed; they hadn't had a case this thoroughly frustrating for months.

"Sara ran those through the database; they came up blank."

Grissom put the page on his desk—on top of the melee of other so far useless information—and rubbed his eyes, resting his face in his palms.

Nick leaned against his desk with a sigh. "It's hard to believe that not a single print was found on any of those notes. I mean, what are the chances that our killer's so thorough as to never touch any of the paper?"

Grissom froze suddenly. The lost kitten notice had been _handed_ straight to him—so why weren't there any fingerprints on it? He couldn't believe he hadn't asked himself that before.

The answer was simple. The boy must have been wearing gloves, and he hadn't noticed. Considering everything that happened afterward, it was reasonable to think he wouldn't remember something so inconsequential, but he still silently berated himself. He was a _CSI_, for goodness' sake. He wasn't supposed to forget things.

"Gloves," he said quietly. Nick gave him a puzzled look.

"What?"

"Gloves," Grissom repeated, picking up the copy of the lost notice. "The kid who gave me the note was wearing _gloves._"

Nick paused a moment. "So you think…"

Grissom met his eyes. "I want the original note scanned again for trace residue. Those gloves could have come from where our killer's hiding out."

Nick nodded, a smile forming on his face. "And it would have rubbed off on the paper, even if there were no fingerprints."

"And it could give us the lead we've been looking for," Grissom concluded. "Take it to Greg; and once he's done that, get him to analyze a sample of the invisible ink on the back. It could be homemade."

Nick nodded quickly. "Will do," he shot back, already half way out of the office and on his way to Trace.

Rubbing his face on last time, Grissom turned again to the pages on his desk. But before he could really get back into them, his mind turned to Ed.

Catherine had called earlier, letting him know that she'd taken him back to the hospital; he wasn't as healthy as most of them would have thought. But hopefully that would pass with time; it really wouldn't help them if Ed suddenly had complications and ended up hospitalized for longer than any of them wanted.

Grissom had to admit that he actually felt worried for the golden-eyed teen. After all, he had no family that they knew of, a killer seemed to be out for his blood—at the very least as a target to unbalance the CSI team—and he was currently struggling to recover from a near-fatal poisoning. Not to mention the obvious difficulties he'd had in the past, and all of the mysterious happenings revolving around him. Grissom allowed himself a moment of sympathy for the teen, even though he could tell that such feelings wouldn't be welcome if Ed was around. He was too stubborn, too much of a loose cannon, to be grateful for any sympathy or pity. Grissom knew the type; after all, he worked with a few of them.

He resolved to go and visit the blonde sometime today, if he got the chance. After all, there were still a few questions he had to ask him, and he wanted to see how he was doing.

With that in mind, he turned back to the reports on his desk, only to be interrupted again only a few moments later.

Grissom looked up as another person walked into his office; this time, it was Brass.

"Hey, Jim," he greeted. "I thought you were with Warrick and Sara going over our crime scene with a fine-toothed comb."

Brass nodded. "I was, but I was called back to the station about ten minutes ago. But I figured that there's something you really have to see."

Grissom's eyebrows knit together. "At the station?" he asked, bewildered.

"Yeah. They're still trying to patch up that hole the kid blew in the wall."

Grissom blinked. "Why the delay?"

Brass' lips pursed together. "Come and see."

Grabbing his coat, Grissom followed the police captain out of the crime lab, a puzzled expression on his face.

* * *

"So what am I looking at here?" Grissom asked, still puzzled.

Brass sighed, and laid his hand beside the perfectly round, four-foot diameter hole in the police station wall. "This wall is all that's here for evidence. We didn't clear anything away."

Grissom blinked, and scanned the small patch of grass he was standing on. "There's… no rubble."

Sighing again, Brass nodded, pushing himself up off the wall with a huff. "Not a spec of concrete dust or a single pebble out of place. There's just a hole in the wall."

Grissom's eyebrows came together in a frown. "So it wasn't any kind of explosive. But what explains the flash of light the guard saw?"

"That's not the weirdest part," Brass interrupted. "Come see this." Stepping through the hole, he beckoned Grissom forward. "You know that the station has foot-thick concrete walls, right?"

Grissom nodded, trying to see where this was going.

"Well, take a look at this."

Taking a step forward, Grissom followed where Brass' hand was pointing. With a puzzled frown, he put his own hand on the inside edge of the hole.

"It's at least two feet thick," he muttered, blinking in bewilderment.

"It goes back to about one foot thick as you move away from the hole," Brass informed him.

"So there was no explosive, and somehow the concrete from the hole ended up being pushed aside and merging with the surrounding wall, creating a perfectly round hole in a matter of seconds." Grissom couldn't stop his eyebrows from nearly flying off his face as he strung together what Brass was trying to say.

"It would seem so," Brass deadpanned. Gesturing at the hole, he sighed. "And it's not the first time he's done something unexplainable like this."

Grissom's eyebrows, if possible, rose higher.

"Remember when we found him in the park the other day?" Grissom nodded. "Well, he jumped down from a tree, and suddenly, a flash of light, and boom, he's got himself a weapon, when all the officers present swear he didn't reach into a pocket. It was like it just slid out of his sleeve. But we didn't find anything on him when we found him later." Pausing, Brass frowned. "And I think he pulled the same weapon when we were at the plant."

"Do you remember which arm it was?" Grissom asked, his brain churning.

"The right one, I think," Brass replied after a moment, a hand running over his chin.

"That's his automail arm."

Brass cocked his head to the side. "So you think maybe…"

Grissom gave him a tiny, knowing smile. "I think we need to talk with Ed again."

* * *

Once Speighn had left, Ed laid back with a sigh. There was a reason he hated hospitals, and that doctor had just proven why he hated the people who worked at hospitals, too. Well, maybe not _hated_… More like disliked to the point of aggravation once they started trying to '_diagnose'_ him or discuss his '_problems'_; especially his '_vertical problems'_—which he most certainly did not have!

Rolling on his side, Ed blew his bangs out of his face in a little huff, and rolled his shoulder, trying to push away the still-fading ache caused by the reattachment of his arm. No matter how many times he did it, it still hurt.

With a sigh, he stared at the blank white wall, trying to ignore both the shoulder ache and the slight tugging on his left arm whenever he moved. _Damn_, how he hated that stupid IV. It made him shudder just to think about that needle poking into his arm, ready to rip his veins apart if he so much as moved too fast—

He shook his head violently, trying to dislodge his thoughts before they went where he _really _didn't want them to go. So long as he ignored it, it should be okay. It would be _fine._

So he resorted to counting the tiles on the floor near the wall. When he finished all the ones he could see, he moved on to counting the number of barely-visible fingerprints on the walls, probably left by some over-zealous children visiting a relative. As his eyes tracked the tiny splotches across the wall, they fell on the little table beside his bed, on which sat a little cup full of ice chips.

_Ice chips,_ Ed scoffed. _What, they don't think I'm even capable of keeping _water_ down?_

Before he could start ranting in his head about how he's a perfectly healthy teen, his stomach did a little flip flop. The need to vomit rose suddenly, but subsided after only a moment.

Ed grimaced. So maybe they were right; that didn't mean he was happy about it. With a sigh, he sat up a grabbed the cup, letting a shard of ice fall on his tongue and melt there. It was better than nothing at relieving his thirst, but he sincerely wished that he could have a decent glass of actual water. But he knew that, even if he decided to shuffle his way to the bathroom and get one, he'd probably just puke it up again. Not to mention that the doctor would be disappointed, at the very least. (_Stupid health practitioner,_ Ed thought.) Maybe after the IV gave him some nutrients, his stomach would settle.

He shuddered before he could allow himself to actually be _thankful_ for the demonic piece of metal jabbed into his wrist.

Tipping a few more chips onto his parched tongue, Ed leaned back on his raised pillow, scanning the room again, careful to keep his left arm motionless.

His eyes soon came to rest on a small pile on the bottom shelf of a little cabinet on the wall. His coat was folded on the top.

His currently _black_ coat.

He stared at it for a moment, before carefully climbing out of bed and reaching for it (with his right arm, mind you. He was trying to keep his left one as close to the IV stand as possible). Sitting on the edge of the bed, he let the coat unfold and hang before his face.

He wanted it to be red again. He really did. Maybe it was his outgoing personality that did it, but he liked how stand-out-ish the colour red was. And it was the same coat he'd been wearing for years. A little clap of the hands would be all it would take—

But common sense invaded. Too many people had seen him wearing the black version in the past two days. As much as he hated to admit it, it was stupid of him to have changed the colour at all. After all, it had been red when they first caught him. How was he supposed to explain away the fact that it mysteriously turned black?

But… maybe if he changed it back right now, no one would notice. After all, his clothes were black, so maybe they would think he hadn't actually been wearing the coat at all in the last two days.

Stubbornly, he shoved aside the knowledge that none of them—at the very least Mr. Grissom—were stupid enough to believe that. (After all, it was Ed's way; find the easiest solution, and damn the consequences. Of course, he failed to remember that it usually didn't work out in his favour in the end.)

With that _not _in mind, Ed laid his coat over his lap, clapped his hands, and placed them on the black fabric.

Just as the light of the transmutation faded, revealing his beloved red coat, the door clicked open.

* * *

Grissom and Brass made their way into the hospital. The nurse at the front desk had let them know that Ed's room was on the fourth floor after Brass had shown her his captain's badge; due to the nature of his case, Ed wasn't being allowed any visitors other than those involved in his case. Although, there hadn't been anyone else looking for him since he'd been admitted.

The elevator doors opened on the fourth floor to reveal a rather happy-looking Allan Speighn, whose smile widened at the sight of them.

"Ah, Mr. Grissom, Captain Brass," he greeted them as they stepped out of the elevator. "I assume you're here to see Mr. Elric?"

Grissom gave him a smile. "We are, Doctor. How is he?"

Speighn's face gained a more professional air. "Well, his body is responding well to IV treatments, even if he isn't—" Grissom and the doctor shared a knowing look, "—and we're planning on having him try some solid food later this evening."

"And if he's being so stubborn, may I ask what's got you in such a good mood?" Brass asked, with honest curiosity.

Speighn's smile widened. "I just finished examining his automail limbs, and they are simply _extraordinary!_ Fully steel, and yet as dextrous as actual limbs. And they were made by his teenage friend!" He failed to conceal his obvious mixture of disbelief and admiration at that.

Grissom and Brass shared a look.

"When you were looking at his arm," Grissom began, "did you see any kind of… extendable weapon on it?"

The doctor's forehead wrinkled. "Not that I know of. But I'm not an expert on prosthetics, let alone ones that I don't believe anyone has ever seen before."

Brass nodded. "Do you think there's any chance he'd let us check it?"

Speighn raised an eyebrow. "Well, he _is_ awake, if not in the best of moods. It may seem suspicious to him, but you're the investigators, not me. But, if you do go in, I suggest you avoid any mentions of his height."

Brass smirked.

"He's rather sensitive about that, isn't he?" Grissom said, a tiny smile playing on his lips.

"It would seem so," Speighn replied with a smirk of his own. "Well, he's in room 406; there's a nurse on hand if you need anything. If you don't mind me, I need to go record what I learned about his prosthetics."

"By all means," Brass said, gesturing to the elevator. Speighn smiled and stepped through the door as it opened again.

"Good day to you," he called out as the two men made their way down the hall. "If I could manage to replicate it…" they heard him begin to mutter as the elevator slid closed behind them.

"He's always been a little over-zealous, don't you agree?" Grissom asked rhetorically as he smiled, making his way down the hall. Brass only smirked.

When they reached room 406, Grissom reached for the handle, just as a flash of light shone from under the door. Trading a puzzled glance with Brass, he turned the handle and opened the door.

* * *

**Hopefully it's less filler-ish than the last two…**

**So, I hope this helped with a few of the constructive criticisms I received. I know I strayed from the CSI feel quite a bit, but I hope it moved back in the right direction. I definitely feel the story made some progress this chapter. Also, I know that a few previous chapters are in need of some **_**serious**_** editing to make them more plausible (especially chapter three; I know a lot of you felt the scene with the tree was entirely juvenile and improbable, but just didn't say it. ;P). I'll be working on that soon.**

**This story seems to literally have a mind of its own, which is probably one of the main reasons it's going so slowly. A lot of the things that've been happening were never planned; I only know the three or four main events that I have to lead up to at some point. So, that said, I welcome any ideas you guys have that you think I should add/improve on. :) Maybe I'll end up using some. And hopefully I'll update again soon! **

**In the next chapter (hopefully): Ed reveals more than intended as he tries to answer some awkward questions, the CSI team takes a step in the right direction, and perhaps a note arrives…**


	10. The Downside of Temper

**My customary excuses revolve around tendinitis, NaNoWriMo, and first-year university. Thankfully, my wrists have been feeling moderately better, I've found some extra time, and the voice recognition software on my new laptop most certainly comes in handy. And I have a roommate who I've ordered to not let me procrastinate any longer.**

_**Warnings**_**_:_ I don't know how some of you feel about this, but I WILL be putting some crude language into this chapter, and possibly the rest of the fic. It's taken me ten chapters now to realize that it just doesn't feel quite as Ed-like without any cursing at all. And besides, it's been four years since I made my 'I'm-never-gonna-write-swears-evah!' promise to myself, and I am definitely a different person now. Not to mention half of my NaNoNovel this year was swearing. So if swearing truly does bother you, I'm sorry, but I'm going to be putting it in where it feels appropriate from now on. I'll post warnings for other possibly-offensive or disturbing content as well. (Which, so you know, we **_**will**_** be encountering in the future. This fic is going to get distinctly darker in later chapters.)**

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* * *

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_Last time:_

_Ed laid his coat over his lap, clapped his hands, and placed them on the black fabric. Just as the light of the transmutation faded, revealing his beloved red coat, the door clicked open..._

_When they reached room 406, Grissom reached for the handle, just as a flash of light shone from under the door. Trading a puzzled glance with Brass, he turned the handle and opened the door._

_

* * *

_

The sight that greeted them as the door swung open was not what they were expecting. Then again, they weren't quite sure _what _they were expecting; not something as innocent as this, for sure.

Ed was laying back in the bed, on his side, staring almost moodily out the window, his right automail arm tucked securely under his head and his left laid over him. Strangely, his red coat was spread across where his feet were beneath the blanket. As they came in, Ed glanced up at them momentarily, before staring back at the window.

Grissom glanced around the room, but it was exactly the same as the last time they had been there. The walls were bare and white, the little stand in the corner with the TV was bare as well, and the TV was off. The small table next to the bed had a little cup of ice chips, and nothing else. And then there was Ed, lying just as they'd found him, looking just as moody as he always did. Actually, it appeared as if he was more moody than usual, if the scowl on his face was anything to go by.

There was nothing in the room that could have produced the bluish light that they had seen.

Brass was already approaching the side of Ed's bed, catching the blonde's attention.

"What do you want now?" the teen asked, pointedly not looking in their direction after the first cursory glance.

Brass was about to open his mouth when Grissom realized exactly how hazardous to the situation that would probably be. Ed looked annoyed enough without the captain's likely inflammatory comment.

"Feet cold?" he cut in, blinking innocently and gesturing at the coat that lay over Ed's feet as he too approached the bed. The boy's shoulder moved up in a noncommittal shrug.

Brass gave him a look that told him that he knew _exactly _what Grissom was pulling with that, and didn't quite appreciate the stealing of his chance to bother the short-tempered teen. But, with a slight eye roll and an almost imperceptible shrug, he pulled up a chair from the wall and positioned it beside the bed, lounging casually and staring down his nose at the blonde. He would have _seemed_ casual, at least, had Grissom not known the true purpose of their visit.

Ed eyed him, and Grissom could see those golden orbs narrowing slightly. Okay, so maybe Brass didn't appear as casual as he'd thought. Must have been the near-glaring match being exchanged between the two.

Grissom carefully interrupted it with a cheery _scraaaaaaaaaaaaaape_ as he pulled another chair from the other side of the room and sat down himself, pasting a pleasant smile to his face.

"How're you feeling today, Ed?" he asked casually, though he was honestly interested in the teen's health.

"Like shit," the teen muttered, still not looking up at them.

_Blunt as ever_, Grissom chuckled in his mind. Of course, it would hardly be appropriate to laugh after that proclamation, so he resigned himself to a small smile that Ed didn't see anyway, because the boy was too busy intently studying the pillowcase beneath his head.

He took a moment to study the blonde. He'd regained some colour, and his amber eyes—what little of them he could see—were obviously less exhausted; the deep bags that had been beneath them were barely shadows now. The past two days had been good for him.

"Did you want something?"

Grissom blinked and looked up, to see that both Brass and Ed were staring at him, even if the teen's eyes could barely be seen through his mop of golden hair.

"Well, we just wanted to see how you were doing," he said cheerfully.

"And to ask you a couple of questions," Brass immediately interjected, giving Grissom a look that told him the captain didn't appreciate the mollycoddling sort of approach the lead CSI seemed to be favouring at the moment. Grissom gave a small sigh as Ed immediately tensed ever so slightly, but still didn't look up from where his eyes had returned to the pillowcase. Now that he thought about it, Grissom suddenly realized that Ed seemed to be avoiding meeting their eyes on purpose.

"That too," Grissom conceded.

Ed said nothing, just continued to stare at the pillowcase. It was almost unnerving, and Grissom would have thought that the blonde wasn't even listening if not for the statue-like posture he seemed to have adopted.

Brass seemed to realize that Grissom wasn't going to be the one who started it off, so he took point. And what a point it was.

"You got a weapon stored in that little metal arm of yours?"

_These two have bluntness down to an art,_ Grissom mused as Ed twitched and sat up slowly.

"No," was the immediate answer.

"Oh really?" Brass countered, raising his eyebrow. "Well then, I guess you wouldn't mind me taking a look, now would you?"

Ed looked slightly mutinous, but with a none-too-subtle eye roll, he slowly held out his right arm.

Grissom leaned forward curiously. He'd only had one good glimpse of the prosthetic anomaly, and he was itching to see it again. Perhaps not quite as anxious as Dr. Speighn, but nonetheless intrigued. After all, it was something he'd never run into before, and everything the teen did with it seemed to make it even more fascinating.

The arm seemed to consist mostly of metal plates overlapping in such a way that allowed complex movement almost as dextrous as a flesh-and-blood limb. Grissom assumed that one or more of the plates could be easily removed to reveal whatever sort of mechanics provided such movement. He was actually rather curious as to what was inside. Was it some kind of computer-run connection to his nerves? Pulleys and gears, perhaps? How electrical was it? Did it use batteries, or simply run off of the nerve impulses from his shoulder?

Brass looked wary to touch the arm at first, but just as Ed finally grunted and made to pull the limb back, the captain's hands shot out and grabbed the prosthetic, turning it to and fro none-too-gently as he examined it.

Ed gave a squawk of protest, but Brass just shot him a glare and went back to his examination.

It was a good minute later—after quite a bit of poking and prodding, along with a demand to remove a plate or three, which was refused rather bluntly on the account that Ed apparently needed a screwdriver to do so—that Brass finally dropped the teen's arm and fixed him with a narrow glare.

"So you say you don't have a weapon up your sleeve, or arm as the case may be. But that still leaves me asking, and I'm gonna be real polite now... Where's your weapon, kid?"

Ed met Brass' eyes firmly and said the one thing that Grissom wasn't expecting, though he really should have been, all things considered. "I don't have one."

Brass took a moment to raise an eyebrow and give Grissom a pointed look—though what his old friend was trying to imply, the CSI had no idea—before turning back to Ed with a sigh.

"Kid, I'll be straight with you. We have at least a dozen witnesses, myself included, who can say without doubt that you drew a blade of some kind both at the power plant and in the park the other day. Now, I'm trying to ask you nicely where you got it, and where you put it now."

"You have no proof I ever had a knife." The blonde's eyes were glinting unnaturally, as if he found this to be an amusing challenge. All things considered—not the least of which was how Brass' face seemed to light up like a ripe tomato at Ed's reply—it probably seemed that way to the teen.

"Listen here, wise guy—"

"Hey, no need to get all offended, I'm just telling you the truth."

"If you were telling me the truth, you'd tell me where you stashed your weapon!"

"And I already told you, I never had a knife."

"Everyone saw you!"

"Well, maybe everyone's hallucinating!"

"You're being a stubborn little brat!"

"Who are you calling a tiny little toddler?"

"You, if you keep acting like a child!"

The teen was out of the bed in an instant, right up in Brass' face, his left hand clutched around the IV pole as if he would die if he didn't hold on to it.

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING SO SMALL THAT YOU COULD LINE HIM UP SIDE BY SIDE A MILLION TIMES AND STILL BE SMALLER THAN A HELIUM MOLECULE?"

Brass stood as well, shoving the boy back onto the bed with little difficulty. "Your temper is obviously just as short as you are!"

"WHO'RE YOU CALLING SO TINY HE'D DROWN IN HALF AN INCH OF WATER?"

Grissom didn't usually approve of such deliberate provocation, but as he sat back and watched the proceedings—with Ed continually attempting to get into Brass' face and Brass just as often pushing the struggling teen back onto the bed—he had to admit that it was amusing. And anger always seemed to loosen the teen's tongue a little bit.

Just as he was getting ready to cut in—after all, there was only so much progress they could make while Ed was screaming insults at the top of his lungs—something fluttered at the corner of his eye.

He blinked, the turned his head to see a small pile of red fabric on the floor.

Rising slowly, so as not to distract the two currently warring males, he stepped over to the end of the bed and picked up the fabric.

It was Ed's coat.

Figuring it had simply fallen from the bed—it had been draped over the blonde's feet, after all—he made to toss it over the end of the hospital bed when he suddenly stopped, a puzzled frown adorning his face.

There was something niggling at the back of his mind. Something about this coat.

Ignoring the ever-increasing volume and colourful language between the two others in the room, Grissom studied the coat closely. Something about its appearance was... off, somehow. Something—

And then it hit him.

It was red.

The colour itself wasn't suspicious, per se—in fact, Grissom rather felt that the bright poppy-red almost suited the fiery teen's personality. It was the fact that it was red at all that was puzzling.

After all, it had been black only yesterday.

And unless Ed had some kind of clothes stash that they didn't know about...

Just to be sure, Grissom checked the inside to make sure it wasn't somehow reversible. The interior was just as red as the exterior.

"Hey, Ed..."

"—AND YOU CAN JUST KISS MY LILY-WHITE ASS, YOU OLD GEEZER!"

"IF I'M OLD, WHAT DOES THAT MAKE YOU, YOU LITTLE PUNK?"

"Ed!"

"WHO ARE YOU CALLING A TINY LEAF ON THE WORLD'S SMALLEST BEAN SPROUT?"

"Ed, how'd you change the colour of your coat?"

Burning amber eyes turned on him and gave him a look so full of contempt that Grissom could almost hear a chorus of '_well duh!_' echoing in his brain. "How do you think, dumbass? Even idiots know that dye components are basically the same for every colour, so it's simple enough to modify—"

There was a horrified little squeak as Ed's eyes suddenly widened and his jaw snapped shut.

And then there was a moment of startling silence.

"What kind of babble are you spouting now?" Brass demanded, noticeably calmer as he wiped drops of saliva from his face and rubbed his ear with a grimace.

"Nothing! I didn't say anything!" The teen's eyes were impossibly wide and his grip on the IV pole was so tight that Grissom could have sworn his knuckles were about to break through his skin.

Grissom blinked. "Modify what? The dye components? How would you do that?"

Something shifted in the blonde's expression as he dropped back onto the bed and turned his back on them, releasing the IV pole only to cross his arms over his chest. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Ed deadpanned, and Grissom could see his fists—both automail and flesh—clenched tightly in the folds of the hospital gown that dwarfed his figure.

"Ed, you just said that you—"

"Sorry I couldn't help much with your questions. Maybe another time." Ed's voice was so bland and conversational that Grissom almost had trouble reconciling it with the stiff posture of the teen before him.

"Hey, we're still talking to you!" Brass grabbed the teen's shoulder and attempted to spin him back around, but the instant his fingers came in contact with Ed, he found his wrist clamped in an impossibly tight hold.

Amber eyes turned over the blonde's shoulder, fixing Brass with an unreadable look. "I'm done talking to you. Good day, Captain Brass." With that, he released the captain's arm and returned his automail limb to the bit of fabric it had originally been clenched around. His eyes returned to staring at the wall on the other side of the room.

Brass growled, and made to grab Ed's shoulder again, but Grissom intervened, laying a hand on his friend's shoulder and shaking his head. Brass bared his teeth a little and jerked his head in the teen's direction, clearly indicating that he felt Ed had information to tell them. Information that the police captain was fully prepared to beat out of him.

Grissom just shook his head again, raising an eyebrow.

Brass looked between the teen on the bed and the lead CSI, before suddenly sighing explosively. "I'll be outside."

The door closed none-too-gently behind the captain, and Grissom watched Ed. The teen didn't even flinch at the sound.

"You two really don't get along, do you?" the lead CSI asked conversationally, taking a seat in his chair once more and running the fabric of the blonde's red coat through his fingers.

There was no response. Not that he was really expecting one.

"I'm impressed by how easily you can make him lose his temper." Grissom smiled slightly. Yes, Brass had a short temper, but he'd never seen his old friend quite so riled up by a teenager of all things.

No response.

Grissom sighed. Maybe bluntness was needed in dealing with this particular teen. "You're going to have to answer our questions some time, Ed. You can't just keep brushing them off."

The blonde twitched. "Wanna bet?"

"I'm not the betting sort. I prefer to calculate things scientifically and make an informed decision."

"Then maybe you and I aren't so different, Mr. Grissom. Now if you'll excuse me, I have to sleep. The nurses say I'm not a hundred percent yet." With that, the teen pulled the blankets from the base of the bed where they'd been shoved, and in one graceful movement pulled them straight up over his head as he laid down, his back still to the man beside the bed.

Grissom sighed. Obviously he wasn't going to get anything else out of the blonde today.

Placing his hands on his knees and rising slowly, he stepped toward the door, before stopping and deftly laying the coat in his hands over the baseboard of the bed.

"We'll see you when you're released, then," he said cheerily as he pulled the door shut behind him. He shared a look with Brass, who was leaning on the wall beside the door.

"Seems it'll be harder to get answers than we thought," the captain commented darkly.

Grissom just shook his head. "All in good time, Jim. All in good time."

* * *

If the two men had stayed but a minute longer, they may have been puzzled by what was now echoing quietly through the previously silent hospital room.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump._

"Stupid, stupid, stupid!" came an angry mutter.

_Thump._

_Thump. _

_Thump._

"Never think before you speak, do you? Idiot!"

_Thump._

_Thump._

Finally, Ed was forced to stop his angry mutterings as his head gave a violent throb. With an explosive sigh, he ceased the diligent smashing of his obviously completely unintelligent cranium into the headboard before he destroyed more brain cells than he could afford to lose.

Why in the _hell_ did he always let his mouth run away with him?

He took a moment to concede that he _had_ been riled up, and of course his mouth ran ahead of his mind when he was in such a temper. But that was no excuse! He was supposed to be some kind of genius!

He'd almost revealed alchemy. Alchemy, the only thing he seemed to have going for him in this strange, foreign world that he had to muddle through while trying to find his brother—who may or may not be there at all—with a madman attempting to kill him and a group of well-meaning but obviously overly-curious crime investigators constantly asking questions, questions, questions! And insulting his height!

It was that last point that really bothered him, but he wouldn't have ever said it out loud.

_If Al were here, he would've stopped me from saying such stupid things..._

But no. No, it didn't matter if Al could have stopped him. Al _wasn't here._

Clenching his right fist in the thin hospital blankets, Ed sat up, rubbing the back of his head where he was sure he would have a bruise tomorrow.

No. He couldn't keep telling himself that things would be different if his little brother were here. Because Al wasn't. He wasn't, and Ed had to get used to that. He couldn't keep relying on a brother who wasn't present to fix his problems for him.

"I am _not _some little kid that needs everything done for me," he muttered through clenched teeth.

He would fix this on his own. He would control his temper, he would keep a cool head, and _goddamnit_ he would stop spouting out secrets whenever someone asked such easily-avoided questions!

With that firmly in mind, he nodded his head, lying back once more.

Tomorrow, he would play it cool. Tomorrow, he would only answer the questions that _he_ wanted to answer. Tomorrow, he would figure things out and take one step closer to finding his brother before he ended up giving away all of his secrets.

Tomorrow...

Tomorrow he'd be heading straight back into a nest of crime investigator vipers, all intent on knowing everything about him and what had happened in the past four days.

A groan echoed down the hallway, but the nurse at the station ignored it. She was used to these kinds of things by now.

_Thump._

_Thump._

_Thump.

* * *

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**I believe you have my roommate to thank most explicitly for this chapter getting out tonight; she kept begging me to finish and wouldn't let me stop writing!**

**Hope you enjoyed it! Sorry for the wait, and probably the length. But be happy: no cliffhanger! **

**And now that I'm finished, I will go soak my poor wrists in a vat of anti-inflammatory cream.**

**Please review if you enjoyed it!**

**-AkitaFallow**


	11. Progress, Or Maybe Not

**Maybe this somewhat-quicker update speed will be able to hold up for awhile... Who knows?**

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* * *

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Grissom's mind was running in circles.

Well, to be more accurate, it was running in zigzags and strange twisted patterns that he had difficulty keeping up with. Circles, he could deal with. This, not so much.

He frowned as he fingered the small piece of red fabric in his hand. Again. _Again_, he'd started the conversation looking for answers. And again, he'd left with no answers given, and only another question to add to an already extended list of things he wanted to know about the blonde that was currently the lab's pet project.

With a sigh, Grissom decided that there would be nothing gained by trying to remember all the inconsistencies and missing facts in Ed's story. Picking up a pencil, he pulled a sheet of paper out of the scattered documents across his desk and laid it in front of him.

_Automail origin (Accident? Who made them?)_

_Weapon (Where is it?) _

_Changing coat colour (Mentioned dye composition. Importance?)_

_Hole in station wall (How?)_

_Guard's story (Hallucination? Or something else?)_

_Hometown (Where is it?)_

_Poisoning (How? Who?)_

Looking down at what he'd written, Grissom grimaced. Despite the fact that they had tried talking to the teen numerous times, they still had a disturbing lack of information about him. The last point on the list disturbed the lead CSI the most; after all, if their perp could get to Ed once, there was a chance that he would try again.

And the thing that set Grissom on edge was the fact that, ever since the poisoning, there had not been another notice from the murderer.

Sighing heavily, he plucked up the bit of fabric he'd placed on the corner of the desk and began running his thumb over it.

A knock distracted him from staring at the words he'd written on the page before him.

"Hey, Gris?"

He looked up to see Greg standing in the doorway, a smug sort of smile on his face.

"What do you have for me, Greg?"

The youngest CSI sauntered in and plopped a piece of paper down on his desk. "Oh, nothing, just the results of the trace scan you had me do on that lost notice."

Grissom raised his eyebrow and picked up the paper. "And?"

"And I think you'll like it," Greg replied, leaning on the desk and waiting patiently for the praise that he probably felt he'd earned.

Grissom's eyes skimmed over the—admittedly short—list of substances that Greg had found. They stopped short on the last item on the list.

"OPC?"

"Original Portland cement," Greg informed him, before ducking his head slightly under the look Grissom shot him for the unnecessary information. "Found the cement dust on the corner of the notice. Not only that, but there was some other dust mixed in with that." He pointed a somewhat imperious finger at the second last item on the list.

"Shale dust."

"Yep." Greg smiled the smile he always smiled when he figured he'd found something worth his superior's time. Which was, fortunately, often enough that Grissom felt he deserved the praise. Most of the time.

"In the same place on the note as the OPC dust?" Grissom asked, looking up at the younger man.

"Exactly the same. It's like they were mixed together before they touched the paper."

"So it was probably on the gloves the kid was wearing," Grissom concluded, and Greg smiled widely.

"Does that mean we can track it?"

Grissom took another look at the paper, dismissing the first few items in the list in favour of the last two. "Well, the other things are the same sort of substances you'd find anywhere, but the OPC suggests a construction site. There isn't much cement dust just hanging around on the street."

"And the shale?" Greg asked, looking excited at his find.

"That's usually only found somewhere outside the city. Non-developed areas. Desert. So somewhere there's been under construction recently, or even in progress, that's around or past the city limits."

"Which means we've got an idea where our perp might be hiding, right?" The young CSI's eyes were sparkling, and he looked uncannily like a puppy that had just been offered a treat held just above his head.

Grissom looked at him over his glasses. "Maybe. But remember, Vegas is a big place."

Greg deflated, but only slightly. "Well... We've still got a better idea now than we did before, right?"

The lead CSI finally smiled slightly. "Yeah. You did good, Greg."

The young man smiled brilliantly. "Awesome! So, when are we leaving?"

Grissom blinked at him. "We aren't leaving at all."

"Well, aren't we going to, you know, check the places? Find the guy before he has the chance to realize what's up and get out of there?"

Grissom blinked at him, before raising an eyebrow again. "First of all, I doubt that our killer really does know everything that's going on. Second, before we go anywhere, I'm going to have Sarah find how many construction sites we have around Vegas and not in it. And thirdly, there is no 'we'. _You_ will be in your lab, identifying invisible ink."

Greg's shoulders slumped. "So I don't get to go out and do anything cool?"

Grissom couldn't help but smile again. "You can do that when we've decided you're more useful outside the lab than in it."

The young CSI sighed. "Yes, boss." With that, he turned toward the door, resembling a kicked puppy.

Before he reached it, Grissom stopped him. "I've got something else I want you to look at."

Greg gave him a curious look, before stepping forward and grabbing the small strip of fabric that Grissom was holding out to him. "What's this?"

"A bit of fabric off of Ed's jacket."

"Why do you have this?" Greg asked, clearly confused.

"I cut it off the inside seam of the coat. I want you to look into the dye that's used on it, and if there's any way it could be modified by light."

"Modified by light?"

Grissom nodded. "Yesterday, his coat was black. Today, it was red, and he said something about dye components and how it's easy enough to modify. I want to know if there's anything special about this fabric or the dye that would let him change the colour quickly with some sort of light or radiation. Brass and I saw some kind of blue light in his hospital room before arriving and I figured that it might have something to do with it."

"Sounds cool," Greg nodded, looking up from his close study of the fabric. "I'll get right on it."

"You do that," Grissom said to the man's back as Greg slipped quickly out of the room to begin what the lead CSI knew would turn into some kind of pet project.

With a sigh, he turned back to the paper in front of him.

"Shale and OPC..." he murmured. He knew that there was a lot of construction going on around Vegas; the city was always expanding. But the trick was finding the one place that their perp could be hiding. It couldn't very well be right in the middle of an active site. There was the question of how long the murderer stayed in one place; did he move around a lot? How long ago had the dust ended up on the notice, or the gloves of the kid? For that matter, how was he keeping a kid with him without someone being alerted? Was the boy a willing participant in the killer's schemes?

The site where they stayed had to be abandoned, or at least inactive for a few days. With the rate that Vegas was expanding, there were very few of such sites. Especially in the middle of the off-season, when the tourists weren't around to clog up the traffic and the infrastructure. So all they had to do was find where the inactive sites were, and send out teams to investigate.

Grissom removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There was no way that there would be enough time or manpower to search every possible site. There still had to be four, maybe five sites, and they wouldn't find them for a good day or so. If, as Greg suggested—even though his ideas were sometimes odd—the perp was really aware of all the evidence they gathered, as he claimed in his first notice, then they had to act fast. And that was simply not possible with how things were going.

Maybe they'd get lucky.

Or maybe not.

**

* * *

**

"And you have to stay out of the way."

"Yeah. I get it."

"I'm serious. You can't touch anything, unless we tell you you can. It's a big enough stretch having you here at all."

"I know that—"

"Ecklie will have our heads if anything gets compromised, but since you've been targeted, we have to watch you. We don't know if you're still in danger."

"I can take care of mys—"

"So you're staying with us when we're here. And you _can't. Touch. Anything._"

"I get it, woman! I'm not some kind of—of... _child_!" Ed stomped his feet as he strode, irritated, into the crime lab as Catherine held the door open for him. He could almost _hear_ the Colonel's voice telling him that he could have fooled him, given his vertically-challenged physique, and the thought just irritated him even more.

The woman followed him through the doorway, letting the door close with a muted _whmf_ that was drowned out by the obviously metallic _thunks_ that echoed behind the peeved teenager every time his left foot hit the ground. It was audible even through his scuffed platform combat boots.

"We'll go tell Grissom you're here and see what he wants to do with you today."

Ed rolled his eyes, but stopped nonetheless to let Catherine lead. He felt an uncomfortable churning in his stomach from the exaggerated movements he'd been making. The hospital had released him this morning after he'd successfully shown them that he could keep down a meagre breakfast of toast and orange juice (they'd originally offered him milk to see if he could keep that down, but had quickly reconsidered at the fiery glare he'd tried to stab through the oh-so-helpful nurse's face). But even though he'd kept it down, it was mostly through force of will. He couldn't stand being in that building that came straight from the devil's throat and was vomited into the real world in an attempt to make any self-respecting man forfeit his life and sanity into the hands of rabid needle wielders. So he'd quite willingly forced himself not to puke and got the hell _out_ of there before anyone could say anything otherwise.

No, he was _not_ bitter. At all.

Of course, Catherine being there to bring him straight to the crime lab afterwards was a slight deterrent to his good mood at being released, but he couldn't have everything. And these overly-curious investigators had a better chance of helping him find Al than some drunk passed out in the gutter, which seemed to be the default state for most of the people hanging around this city.

Catherine gave him one last look before motioning with her head to follow her as she stepped through a pristine glass door and into the crime lab itself.

Ed knew the moment that he entered that the scientist in him wouldn't let him _not_ touch anything, no matter what the blonde woman had—rather forcefully—emphasized.

The second large glass window that they passed—the first was the sitting area he'd seen once before, two days ago—caught Ed's attention instantly. No, it wasn't the fact that there seemed to be stainless steel tables about as tall as he was—though that certainly irked him—but rather the items that were _on_ said tables.

He'd never seen anything like it.

Sure, he'd seen simple machinery before—after all, Amestris had telephones and cars, and so had Germany the last time he'd been transported there. And sure, even the German zeppelins had had some advanced stuff in them. He could have told anyone that with just one glance. But these... these defied everything Ed had seen before.

He tried to attribute it to the over fifty years that had passed since he'd been in this world—or so he guessed, under the assumption that this world was still the same world as Germany—but that couldn't explain away everything there was.

There was something that looked suspiciously like a television screen—which he'd only seen once during his stay in Germany—on one of the far tables, but there were pictures and even _words _flickering across it, though he couldn't quite make them out. Not to mention the nearly-fluorescent colours that seemed to accompany the words. He'd never seen a screen with colours, but he supposed that it would be simple enough. Different dyes to colour the lights—or perhaps even different types of radiation? But that wouldn't work—

Before he could dive into that particular solution, his eyes were caught by movement.

Before the strange screen was a young man—likely mid-twenties, Ed thought—who seemed to be darting back and forth between one of the side tables and the screen, juggling a number of chemicals and what looked like an advanced chemistry set as he moved about. Strange machines dotted the remaining tables, some obviously whirring and doing... whatever it was that they were designed to do.

He didn't realize he'd stopped until Catherine touched his left shoulder. Then he gave a tiny start and turned towards her.

"That's Greg," she told him. "He's our Trace expert."

Ed blinked his golden eyes up at her. "What does he do?"

She pursed her lips slightly. "Well, he's the one who examines all the small evidence. You know, DNA, trace materials, stuff like that."

He blinked again, and looked back at Greg, who seemed to have gathered a number of strangely-shaped lamps and was shining them one by one on something on the table. "Ah."

Catherine seemed to take that as a completion of Ed's curiosity, and so motioned for him to follow her down the hall once more. The teen was reluctant to part with the window—a few more minutes, and maybe he'd see something he understood. Whatever this strange technology was, he wanted to figure it out, and he wanted to do it _now_.

But, alas, it was not to be. Ed finally, reluctantly, stepped further down the hall after Catherine, trying his best not to stop again, even as he caught a glimpse of other strange items in the various glass-walled rooms they passed. He tried to tell himself that it was because he didn't want to cause a ruckus now and lose any chance of seeing what everything was, but his subconscious was quite firmly set in the belief that Catherine's resemblance to Hawkeye was not coincidental, and was willing to believe that she would pull a gun out from... _somewhere_ and threaten him to come if he didn't do so willingly.

He had no desire to find out if this was true or not.

And so it was that a rather meek-looking (yet far from subservient) Edward Elric was delivered successfully to what he instantly dubbed as the "Creepy Mad Scientist" room.

"Ah, Catherine. Ed. You made it."

Ed tore his eyes from a rather disturbing jar that contained a huge black spider about eye-level amid the dozens of shelves and jars dotting the room. He spotted a small desk near the back wall, with a somewhat haggard-looking Grissom sitting in a chair behind it.

Catherine stepped forward, and Ed already knew that he was meant to follow. Which he did, grudgingly. _Very_ grudgingly. He had no desire to stay in this... this Creepy Mad Scientist bug room.

"Any trouble getting back?" the lead CSI asked casually, his eyes barely lifting from the page he seemed to be reading.

"Not really," Catherine replied. "The doctors say to keep him on light food for awhile, but he should be recovering better now."

Grissom nodded, eyes still on the paper. "Same medications?"

"With something to settle his stomach if he starts to feel ill."

Ed, thoroughly put out by the conversation that seemed to be going on as if he weren't there (and if Grissom made even _one_ crack about not being able to see him over the paperwork, Ed would smash every single one of the jars in the room), finally lifted his arms in an expansive gesture, interrupting whatever it was that Grissom was going to say. "So...what's with all the bug jar things?"

Grissom finally looked up fully, removing his glasses as he glanced at Ed, then around the room at the shelves full of jars as if it were the first time he'd ever seen them.

"I'm a forensic entomologist," he answered finally, his gaze turning back to the blonde. "I study insects in order to solve crimes."

Ed put a hand on his chin, peering curiously around at the jars. "So you... study things like a colony's incubation period to find out how long someone's been dead for?"

"Among other things," Grissom nodded, but didn't elaborate.

The teen nodded slightly, before turning his eyes back to the lead CSI. "Sounds interesting." More than interesting, really. Intriguing. It was something he _knew_ no one in Amestris had really thought about, or, at the very least, no one who would pass the idea on. Ed knew the basics of insect life; he'd come across it in a number of biology tomes back home. But the idea of using them as an aid for investigations was something new. Maybe, if—_when_—he ever got home, he could suggest something like that to someone.

He blinked as he realized that both Catherine and Grissom were looking at him with expectant faces. He knew that expression. It was the one people wore when they've asked him a question while he was too busy thinking to pay attention.

"I'm sorry, what'd you say?" he asked politely (or as politely as he could, being who he was).

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "I was just suggesting to Catherine that you stay here with me for awhile, until Sara's been freed up and is willing to take you for lunch."

Ed blinked. "Who's Sara?"

"That'd be me."

Ed immediately spun around and entered his deceptive fighting pose—a sort of relaxed crouch that, if you didn't know what it was, you would think he was slouching. His arms were crossed in front of his chest loosely, close enough together that clapping his gloved palms together would take less than half a second.

"Sorry, didn't mean to sneak up on you," the woman in the door said good-naturedly as she smiled at him. Her brown hair was cropped just above her shoulders, and she had a kind face that reminded Ed strangely of his mother. As he slowly relaxed, she held out her hand. "Sara Sidle, CSI. You must be Edward."

Ed slowly reached out his automail arm. "Ed," he corrected reflexively as the woman pumped his hand twice before letting go, not a trace of trepidation in her eyes. It was as though she hadn't felt the strange coldness and texture of his automail at all. Then again, considering she was one of the CSIs, she had probably already been informed.

"Ed," she repeated, nodding with a slight smile. "Good to see you out of the hospital."

His eye twitched slightly at the _H_ word, but he managed to suppress it.

"What do you have for me, Sara?" Grissom cut in before the woman could say anything further. Sara stepped past Ed and around Catherine to set a small stack of papers that Ed hadn't noticed her carrying on Grissom's desk.

"I did a search of all the abandoned or paused construction sites around Vegas and listed the addresses. I took the liberty of finding out what kind of building was going up and who owned the property previously, and found satellite maps of each that show us any sort of abandoned buildings or other shelter our perp could be using."

Grissom's eyebrows inched up his face throughout the explanation, until he was giving Sara a look somewhere between shocked and impressed.

"Aaaaand... that's it," Sara said finally, after a moment or two of staring. "So I'll just hop over—" she pointed both index fingers towards a side wall, "—and see how Nick's coming along with the vic's clothes." With that, she stepped out of the room, closing the door with a final _twick_ behind her.

Ed saw Grissom blink a few times, then glance down at the paper in front of him. With a small sigh—Ed couldn't tell whether it was relieved or exhausted—he looked up at the teenager and CSI in front of his desk.

"So, as you can see, I have some things to look through." He was addressing Ed now. "Do you have anything you'd like to do? Want a pack of cards, a book?"

Ed's eyes lit up slightly. "A book? What do you have?"

Grissom blinked at him. "Nothing you'd be interested in. Unfortunately, my supply of fiction has always been rather small."

The teen shook his head. "I didn't mean fiction. I meant a _real _book. What do you have?"

The lead CSI looked at him for a long moment. "Most of what I have in here is advanced entomology texts. Catherine might be able to find you something more interes—"

"You've got stuff on your bugs? Like what?" Ed cut in, looking around once more at the jars that still sort of creeped him out.

Ed was soon presented with a book that Grissom had dug out of the very bottom of a bookshelf that he hadn't even noticed off to the right of the desk, sweeping dust carelessly from the cover.

"_Basic Entomology: A Practical Manual_, by T.V. Sathe," Ed read out, before looking back up at Grissom.

"It's the least advanced one I've got," the man explained. Ed felt the twitch in his eye again.

_Least advanced... what does he think I am, a preschooler?_

But he didn't voice those thoughts. They were already going down a dangerous road that would lead only to violence and probably injury on Grissom's part. And Ed didn't need more reason for them to kick him out of here or arrest him again.

"Sounds good," he said instead, and took the book from the man's hands with a smile that was actually genuine, despite his misgivings. Maybe this would prove to be something interesting.

Or maybe not.

* * *

**I don't know if I like this chapter or not. Again, it feels sort of filler-ish, even though there was some movement in the case for the CSIs. Let me know how you feel about it, and I will try to have the next chapter out as soon as I can!**

**Also, I would like to note, to those of you who expressed some concern over the swearing that I am now inserting into this story: I will not be excessive, nor will I be unnecessary. Cursing, in my opinion, is limited to times of emotional stress, and are not meant to be bandied about in every sentence, as some authors do. There is little for you to worry about by way of F-bombs and repetitive strings of curses, but the story is rated T for a number of reasons, this being one of them. It will not turn into a swear-fest, though. I hope that has laid some concerns to rest on that issue.**

**I'm hoping for some action next chapter! Please don't give up on me because of filler-ish-ness! Hopefully, now that we're entering a slightly more planned-out and action-based arc of the fic, I'll be more prone to updating. **

**Review if you enjoyed it. :)**

**-AkitaFallow**


	12. Insects and Interactions

**HOLY GUACAMOLE, GUYS. **

**Five hundred reviews! Just for that, I have made this chapter extra plot-based and gotten it out extra early. I love you all to death (and beyond, if that's your cup of tea), and can't thank you enough for the constant support you've been giving me, despite my tendencies toward long non-update periods and fillers. I know sometimes this story moves a little slow, but I'm trying to set it up really well for what's coming up. **

**

* * *

**

_Fwip._

_Fwip._

_Fwip._

"So... you hungry?"

_Fwip._

_Fwip._

She almost gave up right there. _Almost_. But let it not be said that Sara Sidle was one to back down easily.

"You're going to have to eat something, you know."

_Fwip._

If she didn't know better, she would have said that he was ignoring her. Because there was no way in hell he was reading that book that fast.

_Fwip._

She took a bite of her salad, eyes still trained on the blonde that she had rescued from Grissom's oh-so-talkative clutches ten minutes before.

"Are you actually reading that?"

_Fwip._

She rolled her eyes as Ed turned yet another page, his amber eyes already roving impossibly fast over what she knew to be tiny text covering the paper.

"I'm sure we've got something more interesting than..." she took a look at the cover of the book, and grimaced, "..._Descriptions of the Insects of North America_. Hell, I'll bet you'd even prefer one of Catherine's romance novels over _that_."

_Fwip._

He was totally ignoring her.

"Did Grissom rope you in with some kind of super-bug talk?"

_Fwip._

"Hey. Ed. Are you even listening to me?"

_Fwip._

She finally rolled her eyes and put her fork down, salad forgotten. "Are you just going to keep pretending to read that, or are you going to actually talk to me and maybe get something to eat?"

_Fwip._

With a heavy sigh, she reached across the table and plucked the book from the teenager's hands as he sat curled—rather comfortably, it seemed—in one of the small tables in the break room. Ed's confused expression was almost comical as she pulled back, book in hand. He shook his head a few times, as if dislodging something, before his eyes finally focused on her.

"Hey, I was reading that!"

Sara rolled her eyes to the roof. "Finally, a response!"

Ed scowled at her. "What do you want? I was reading!"

Her eyebrow inched up her forehead in an expression that she knew (from long experience) made her look almost like Grissom. "You were actually reading this?"

Ed crossed his arms and scowled more deeply before nodding sharply.

Sara's other eyebrow rose to join the first. Setting the book down on the table, she flipped through the first few pages. "This is drier than my graduate thesis. Why in the world would you want to read _this_?"

His lips pursed slightly as he glared. "Because it's interesting."

She blinked at him. Then blinked again. Then, for good measure—and to make sure that Grissom hadn't suddenly materialized in the teen's place—blinked a third time. "You... actually find this stuff _interesting?_"

"Obviously. Why else would I be reading it?"

She pushed the book back towards him with a shrug. "Well, I guess whatever makes you happy. Are you sure you wouldn't want something...more fun? Like a novel or something? You're not in school, you know."

He gave her such a withering glare that she almost backed off. "I wouldn't be _reading _it if I didn't _like _it. And this _is _what I read for fun."

She held up her hands in a submissive gesture, even though what she really wanted to do was snatch the bug book from the blonde's hands and hit him over the head with it in the hopes it would knock some sense into the poor kid. "Aren't you... you know, a little young to be reading stuff like that for fun?"

The book slammed onto the table with a ringing _whmf!_

"_Who are you calling a miniature toddler who can't even see over the table?_"

Sara held her hands up higher. "I never said anything about that. I was just saying that even a teenager isn't this interested in stuff like this. Hell, when I was in high school, I wouldn't touch anything academic unless it was my textbooks."

Ed sat back again, pulling the book to him and opening it once more on his knees as he curled into the chair again. "Well, maybe the difference is that I didn't _go_ to high school."

She blinked at this unexpected information. "What do you mean? You drop out or something?"

But his eyes were already darting across the page—half way through the book—and he didn't respond. He didn't even appear to hear her. Clearly, he had no desire to continue speaking with her.

_Great first impression you've made, Sidle_, she scoffed at herself, before pulling her salad towards her once more and taking another bite.

* * *

Brass met the eyes of one of the officers under his command and twitched his head to the right. The other man nodded and darted forward, gun held in a ready position in both hands as he ran, half-crouched. Brass followed within moments, his boots crunching on the loose rock beneath his feet.

_Too loud_, he berated himself, but the terrain didn't really lend itself to silence.

More shale crunched under the officers' feet as three more came up behind him, each stopping behind separate concrete pillars that interspersed the area they had just entered. A flashlight beam shone quickly on the ground, scanning for any telltale signs of recent habitation.

"I've got footprints," an officer called softly from just in front of him, voice pitched to only carry to the four other people behind.

"Keep your eyes peeled. Weapons ready," Brass replied, just as softly. He waited for a moment as the officer in front switched off his flashlight and tucked it in his belt. The detective then flicked his fingers forward, and all five of them made their way towards the aluminum service building that sat quietly on the edge of the construction site.

This was the fourth site they had inspected in the past six hours, and the sun had long since set. The previous three sites had been relatively simple to check; the first had been nothing more than a bare patch of ground, no shelter to speak of. The second had been nearly as flat, with only a large concrete foundation and an abandoned Bobcat. The third hadn't been abandoned at all; in fact, they had been turned back at the fence by two hardhats, who told them in no uncertain terms that, regardless of their profession or what sort of trouble they were looking for, they wouldn't be allowed to pass. The site was simply too dangerous, with large bulldozers and cranes working non-stop through the night. The short glimpse Brass had gotten of the terrain didn't show any buildings or possible hideouts, though; only at least twenty workers and innumerable mounds of dirt.

This fourth site... well, now that was an entirely different kettle of fish.

His suspicion had first been aroused the moment they'd pulled up beside the large chain-link fencing. At first glance, it seemed like nothing; just a regular fence. A longer look—and closer inspection once he got out of the vehicle—revealed something much more noteworthy.

There was a large slash through the fencing near one of the posts. A slash just big enough to admit an average-sized man.

It had taken only moment for him to signal the other four officers who had accompanied him on this reconnaissance mission, and they had quickly divested themselves of their vehicles and stepped through the fence themselves.

The second thing that made Brass' hackles rise in warning was the small aluminum-sided building that he could just make out through the darkness on the other side of the construction site. Large concrete pillars rose out of the ground every ten feet, and dust littered the ground.

He hadn't had to say anything. The look he sent back was enough.

And now, they were lined up along the sides of the building, eyes on each other and their surroundings, constantly alert.

This could be it.

Taking a deep breath, Brass adjusted his grip on his gun and held it up by his face, flashlight held just above it and ready to be clicked on. He shuffled silently to the side of the simple metal doorway. He could feel the presence of two officers behind him, and see the shadows of the two on the other side of the door.

Nodding sharply, he whirled, gun coming down, and kicked the door in.

* * *

She couldn't believe it. She simply _could not believe it._

"I refuse to believe it," she informed him succinctly.

Ed raised his eyebrow casually. "That I'm hungry? I'm a teenager, I'm supposed to be hungry all the time."

Sara shook her head with a frown. "Not that you're hungry. I can't possibly believe that you _actually_ read that _entire book_ in the last hour."

The teen shrugged, calmly placing the book on the table and standing up to stretch. She distinctly heard a mechanical whirring and his back crackling in the silent room. "What can I say? I read fast."

"Reading fast would mean that you finish that in a _week._ Not an _hour_."

Ed shrugged again, and made his was over to the refrigerator in the corner, pulling it open and unceremoniously riffling through the contents. "So do you have any food in here, or what?"

Sara ignored his pleas of hunger—or rather demands—and picked up the book he'd set down.

"Okay, so if you really read this..." She flipped to a chapter near the back of the book and scanned the page, nearly gagging at the scientific jargon that met her eyes. "What does the thirteenth chapter say about insects and forensics?"

She was expecting him to brush her off, tell her he couldn't recall things that well, or even admit that no, he hadn't actually read the book. She certainly _didn't_ expect him to turn around and face her, eyes trained on hers as he recited calmly.

"Insects have existed on earth for about 250 million years; comparatively humans have existed for about 300,000 years. Such an enormous amount of time has allowed insects to attain a wide diversity in both form and development. There are currently about 700,000 described species and it is estimated that there may be more than 10 million species of insects yet to be described. Some insects have evolved a gradual or "paurometabolous" development in which there is an egg that hatches into an immature or "nymph", which resembles the adult form, but is smaller and lacks wings. In the forensically important insects, this is best represented by—"

"Okay, stop," Sara ordered weakly, her eyes darting from the words in the book—identical to those that were spoken—and the teen who had spoken those words. There was no way... simply no way...

Ed had a smug little smirk on his face as he turned back to the fridge. Sara didn't have the presence of mind to stop him as he snatched an apple—probably Nick's— from the bottom drawer, kicked the door shut, and made his way out of the break room, biting into the fruit with apparent relish. Only when the door clicked shut behind him did she snap out of her stupor enough to grab the book and follow him out, her salad container left forgotten on the table.

* * *

Brass' flashlight was on in a moment, sweeping from side to side swiftly in an attempt to catch any attacks before they came.

Which they didn't.

He caught a flash of movement off to the right, but the flashlight beam he flicked towards it revealed a large cockroach that immediately scuttled away into a hole in the floor. Continuing his sweep as the other four officers stepped into the room, Brass saw no other movement.

"Clear," he announced, and lowered his gun slightly.

One of the other officers swept his flashlight over the floor, then knelt down and inspected the dirt. "Hey, Brass."

"What do you have?" the detective asked instantly, stepping closer.

"Footprints. Look recent," he replied softly, pointing out said marks in the dust.

Brass knelt down as well, flicking his flashlight beam forward as the footprints—what looked like bare feet, of all things—continued forward. Finally, the light landed on something white lying harmlessly on the floor.

"What's that?" the officer beside him muttered, taking a step forward. Brass held him back with a hand.

"Lemme check it."

The detective took a cautious step forward as the officer stopped, keeping his flashlight beam fixed the white patch.

Brass flicked the light around what quickly became apparent was a piece of paper, making sure that there was nothing on the floor that would suggest a trap of some kind. Satisfied, he knelt down again and shone the light directly on the paper—envelope, actually.

It bore two words on the front.

_MISTER GRISSOM_

* * *

"Which one's next?"

Grissom looked up from his paperwork, slightly startled at Ed's voice as the teenager entered his office.

"Which one's next of what?" he asked calmly, looking over his glasses with a puzzled frown. "And where's Sara?"

"Which book's next? I finished the last one." The blonde crossed his arms over his chest as he reached Grissom's desk. "And Sara's right there." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder casually, just as Sara stepped into the office. Grissom had just enough time to register the rather stunned look on her face and the large book in her hand before his attention was once more drawn to Ed.

"So what's next? I know you've got a bunch stashed in your bookshelf, but there's probably some kind of order you're supposed to read them in, right?" Grissom felt the expectant golden gaze on him as he blinked, somewhat taken aback.

"And you actually read the last one?" he asked sceptically, glancing at the clock. There was no way Ed had read it in the last hour. The lead CSI had been shocked enough when the teenager had calmly informed him that he was finished the last book only an hour and a half after he'd been given it. Of course, he'd put it down to teenage boredom—he hadn't really expected Ed to actually enjoy reading something like a basic entomology text, no matter how sure the blonde had seemed to be about it. In fact, he'd expected Ed to demand some kind of real reading material that would hold his interest for longer.

He hadn't expected him to demand _another_ science tome.

Grissom had—somewhat cautiously, he would admit—given Ed a slightly more difficult (and significantly more boring) text to read. The teen had, contrary to every expectation, quite happily sat back down in the seat he'd occupied for the past while and opened the book, diving into the contents with what appeared to be unholy glee.

Even _he_ had to admit that it was somewhat disconcerting to see in a teen. Not to mention that it reminded him almost disturbingly of himself at that age.

And now, just over an hour after he'd given him the book—and around half an hour since Sara had come to take him for some lunch, the blonde was back, an apple in one hand, demanding quite forcefully to be given a _third_ book.

"He read it, all right," Sara said as she, too, stepped up to his desk, placing the text on top of the papers strewn across it. She didn't elaborate on how she knew.

Grissom blinked, and gave Ed a long look.

"And you actually want another one?"

Ed rolled his eyes. "Why else would I be asking if I didn't want another one?"

Grissom's eyebrows went up as he fingered the book on his desk. "You sure you don't want something... more interesting?" Not that he disapproved. He just figured that a teenager as outgoing as Ed obviously was couldn't possibly be a total bookworm. He was probably just trying to make a strong first impression on them by pretending to be intelligent.

Though the speed and relish with which he had consumed the first two books begged to differ with that possibility.

"Why do you people keep asking that?" Ed demanded as he threw his hands in the air, the apple clutched in his left fist. "Honestly, can I not just read something that interests _me_ without someone demanding I lower my intelligence by reading some kind of trashy romance novel?"

Here he gave a rather pointed look at Sara, though Grissom wasn't sure why.

"I was just making a suggestion," he conceded, taking the book from his desk and returning it to its place, before grabbing another one and holding it out to the teen.

"_Thank_ you," Ed said almost grudgingly as _Borror and DeLong's Introduction to the Study of Insects_ was snatched up by his free right hand. He took another bite of his apple as he flopped into the chair by the desk that he had previously occupied, and immediately opened the book.

Grissom and Sara shared a look, before she shrugged.

"He didn't do much other than read and steal that apple when he was with me."

The lead CSI glanced at Ed, but he didn't seem to be listening. In fact, he seemed to be as completely engrossed in the book as he'd been with the other two.

"He say anything?"

"Not much, but apparently he hasn't been to high school."

Grissom quirked an eyebrow. "He said that?"

Sara nodded. "Think he's a dropout?"

"I don't know what to think when it comes to Ed."

Both of them looked at the teen, but he offered no acknowledgement of the conversation happening five feet to his right.

"...You know, I think he actually doesn't hear anything when he's reading something."

He blinked up at his subordinate. "Really? What makes you think that?"

"He ignored me completely in the break room. Even when I started telling him about you and your bug talk."

"Entomology is a legitimate branch of forensic science."

Sara laughed slightly. "Yeah, I know, Grissom. We've had this argument before."

"Have we? I never noticed."

They smirked at each other for a moment, before Sara appeared to have an idea.

"I heard from Brass that he's got a short temper, especially when you say something about his height. You think...?"

Grissom gave a tiny smirk, even though it was slightly wary. He didn't want his bug jars being destroyed, after all. "Never know till you try."

Sara smirked widely, and turned to the oblivious teen. "Hey, Ed. You're really short."

And, for the first time since Grissom had met him, Ed had no reaction but a slight twitch in his shoulder that seemed entirely involuntary.

"Gotta admire his concentration," Sara commented with a smile.

* * *

"Everybody stop!" Brass ordered immediately, holding a hand out to the side to both balance himself and catch the others' attention.

The other four officers froze instantly, already alert for the slightest movement around them and prepared for any order Brass would give them.

_It's addressed to Grissom_, the detective's mind helpfully informed him. _That means someone knows we're here, or that we'd come here._

Standing ever so slowly, Brass stepped back, shining his flashlight more slowly around the room.

But the light revealed nothing different from the first sweep he and his men had done: simple aluminum walls, dirt floor, and a few larger rocks scattered here and there. The roof was a plain sheet of metal. Nothing special. Nothing noteworthy. Nothing suspicious.

And yet something was setting him on edge, and it _wasn't_ just the mysterious envelope addressed to a man located over five miles away with no way to guarantee it would reach its recipient.

"Go check outside," he ordered quietly of the two men nearest the door. "Someone could still be here."

As they left, Brass looked once more down at the envelope. Despite its obviously suspicious addressee and location, he knew that they couldn't afford to give up any lead in this case. No matter how risky it was, Grissom would want to see whatever was in that envelope. Even if it ended up being yet another one of those taunting notes that everyone knew had been arriving over the last few days. If it was, it just meant that their killer had gotten even more creative in his delivery.

And had known they were going to come here before they even decided to.

He paused at that thought. If the perp knew what they were going to do before they did it, then that meant he was both far smarter than they already gave him credit for, and that he could have done more than just left a note for them.

"Outside's clear," a voice suddenly buzzed quietly over the radio on his shoulder.

He reached up and pressed the button. "Keep your eyes peeled."

With a sigh, Brass released the radio and looked down at the envelope once more. There didn't seem to be anything special about it. It was thin enough that it probably only held one sheet of paper.

"Just grab it and let's get out of here," the officer just behind him advised, a slightly nervous lilt in his voice.

For once, Brass whole-heartedly agreed. They'd let the CSIs deal with anything else here when it was actually light enough to see.

Still cautious, he knelt down for a final time, flicking his flashlight over the envelope. So innocent, yet so very significant.

And yet, something was still bothering him.

Never one to hesitate, even though his instincts were screaming that _something was not right_, he reached out and snatched the pristine white letter from the rough dirt floor.

He wasn't—even though it seemed some unnamed part of him actually was—expecting what was revealed on the floor where it had been resting. It actually took his mind a full three seconds to process what he was seeing.

A tiny display, set into the floor, displaying three dim, red digits.

_**0:10**_

He spared another second to blink.

And then, as he watched, the previously motionless number changed.

_**0:09**_

_**0:08**_

And it finally clicked in his mind.

He swore violently, shooting to his feet. "_EVERYBODY OUT!"_

There was no hesitation. Instantly, the other two officers in the shack darted for the door, Brass already barrelling his way through it. The two men outside had heard him loud and clear, and were already coming around the side of the building to meet up with them. The five of them, Brass in the lead, sprinted for cover.

They had just passed the first concrete pillar when the explosion blew the frail aluminum structure into the air and threw them off their feet.

* * *

**...And I have left you with a cliffhanger. Can't you tell how much I love you guys? XD**

**You know you've been writing too many history papers when you feel the urge to reference where you got the information for facts in a fanfiction chapter. But, thankfully, I have resisted.**

**Congratulations to anonymous reviewer Delhaanii for being the 500****th**** reviewer. :) You get digital pie made with the love of myself and all of the plot bunnies stirring quietly in my brain. Everyone else gets digital cookies! (throws cookies into the crowd)**

**Now, I cannot guarantee another chapter in the next little while (certainly not with this update speed!) because I'm back at uni for the next two months, and it's almost crunch time. I'll try to work on it and get it out to you guys ASAP!  
**

**Review if you enjoyed it, my lovely, lovely readers!**

**-AkitaFallow**


	13. Mysteries, Real and Imagined

**I'm quite liking the pace I'm setting here, but don't think I'll be able to keep it up. My wrists are not cooperating, and it is nearing university crunch time. But, I shall do my best!**

**Warnings: Spoilers for something completely unrelated to FMA or CSI; the ending of J.D. Robb's novel "Naked in Death". You'll see why.**

* * *

Rocks and dust flew into the air, borne on a cloud of super-heated air and fire. Sharp shards of shale pelted down on the five officers, and the heat washed over them, scorching exposed skin with the strength of a gale behind it. The sound was deafening; a concussive blast that seemed to rip its way through their eardrums and straight into their brains. The air was clogged with dust and smoke, burning hot and difficult to breathe in the seconds it took for the explosion to spread around them.

There was another deafening _crash!_ as whatever remained of the aluminum shack came falling back to earth, sharp pieces driving into the ground and being thrown across it by the power of the explosion.

And then, there was silence.

Brass could hear only the ringing of his ears and the beating of his heart, echoing through his head. His eyes, clenched tightly shut against the heat, opened slowly as he felt the air cool slightly against his skin, which felt as if he'd been out in the sun far too long and gotten more than just an impressive tan.

He saw the flickering orange light reflecting on the concrete pillars in front of him for but a moment, before it slowly petered out. Turning his head and pushing himself up on his hands—which were peppered with small scrapes and had a number of shale pieces wedged into his skin—he squinted, speechless, at the shack. Or what little remained of it.

The walls were nothing more than a memory, with pieces of aluminum scattered like confetti across the dirt. The simple floor was no longer; instead, a gaping hole in the ground, with a number of scorched and half-melted pieces of metal still glowing hot inside it, testified to the explosive force that they had just barely escaped.

The air was still filled with dust, and Brass coughed for a moment, wiping his dirty face on his equally dusty (and slightly charred) uniform sleeve. When he could see and breathe properly, he looked around anxiously for his men.

The first one he saw had landed just to his right, and was already up on his hands and knees, coughing up dusty phlegm and shaking his head to rid it of the ringing that was no doubt assaulting his ears. Quickly scanning his eyes past the man—he was fine, for now—Brass caught sight of two more figures through the gloom, one already on his feet, and the other not far behind.

That left one more.

He turned his eyes to his left, and swore, spitting a dollop of dusty saliva from his mouth.

The last man was lying, unmoving, crumpled against the nearest concrete pillar.

Pushing himself up again, Brass tried to stand, only to have his right foot collapse beneath him as he put weight on it. Swearing violently under his breath, he quickly took stock of the pains in his body, knowing he'd be no use to anyone if he was injured and didn't know about it.

He determined, after a moment, that the only part of him that really hurt at this time was his right ankle, besides the persistent burning of any skin that had been exposed, including his face. Carefully, he fingered his ankle, determining quickly that no, it was not broken. Possibly sprained. He could live with possibly sprained.

Deciding that he was healthy enough to move, he dragged himself slowly across the five foot gap to the officer against the pillar. Taking special care not to move him, for fear of possible spinal injuries, Brass checked his pulse, sighing quietly when he felt it fast and strong against his fingers. Quickly scanning the man's body for possible bleeding, he pulled out his phone. They needed an ambulance.

It took a moment for him to realize that the ringing in his ears was not going away, and that the 9-1-1 operator wasn't actually whispering.

"—_ation, sir?"_

"I'm sorry, what?" he asked, not sure if he was shouting.

"_What is...location?"_

He struggled to focus on the voice in the speaker, barely able to hear her sentence over the persistent complaint of his ears. He gave his name and the address of the construction site, not bothering to try and lower his voice, because he could barely hear it anyway.

"_Please...on the phone...will...in a few...sir."_

He missed half the words she said, but didn't bother telling her to repeat herself.

"_What...situation?"_

"There's been an explosion," is what he hoped he said. He wasn't sure if it came out that way. "Officer down."

"_Thank...the ambu...arrive...minutes...please stay...are."_

He kept the phone to his ear, just barely hearing the operator telling him to check the man's vital signs and mostly ignoring her. He already knew protocol.

Brass glanced down at what he still had clutched in his hand. The envelope, once pristine and white, was crumpled and smudged with dirt, and one corner looked slightly scorched. Whatever evidence had been on it, it was destroyed now.

But they were alive. And really, that was all Brass cared about at the moment.

* * *

When Ed looked up suddenly from his book, Grissom was sure he was going to request another book. In fact, he already had the next tome—a large text entitled _Fundamentals of Entomology_ that would hopefully occupy more of the teen's time—ready on the corner of his desk. After all, it had already been an hour and a half since Ed began the book he was currently devouring.

But, as the seconds passed, Ed didn't move, merely staring off into space, somewhere in the vicinity of a small jar of mayflies. Grissom stole a glance at his book and noticed that, yes, he was almost finished, but he still had a good twenty pages or so to go. So what was he distracted by...?

Just as he was about to open his mouth and ask, Ed's golden gaze jerked towards the telephone on his desk, a mere second before it went off.

* * *

There was something wrong. He just _knew _it.

He'd just started the last chapter of the latest text Grissom had given him when the feeling first started. Like something important had happened, and he wasn't aware of it. Like there was some kind of... _threat_ that he hadn't accounted for.

Ed prided himself in being scientific and able to explain almost anything (mostly thanks to Truth; he wasn't vain enough to claim the entire credit), but his instincts were honed from years of constant battle, especially battle with creatures that already defied logic as it was.

So when his instincts whispered that something was going to happen that probably wasn't a good thing, he listened.

He managed to pinpoint the uneasy feeling just seconds before the phone rang.

Peripherally, Ed noticed that Grissom was watching him for just a moment, before he turned his attention to the phone as well, picking it up slowly from its cradle and placing it to his ear.

"Grissom."

"_It's Brass."_

Both Ed and Grissom were shocked when the voice came nearly shouting out of the phone. The blonde was surprised that he could hear it at all; after all, he was a good five feet from the desk. Grissom grimaced as he held the receiver away from his ear.

"Why are you shouting, Jim?"

"_Could you speak a little louder, Gil? I can't quite hear you." _Brass' voice had not at all decreased in volume.

Grissom spoke more slowly and slightly louder, enunciating clearly. "Why are you shouting?"

"_Am I? Sorry, Gil, my hearing's not quite back yet."_

Now didn't that have an ominous ring to it?

"What? What happened? Where are you?"

"_We're at the hospital."_

"Why are you there? I sent you to check the construction sites. Are you hurt?" Grissom's voice was laced with concern. Ed frowned.

"_Not me. Doyland. They patched me and the others up already."_

"What happened?" Grissom prompted, when it seemed an answer wasn't forthcoming.

Even Ed could hear the heavy sigh that echoed from the phone. _"An explosion."_

Both males in the office adopted alarmed looks, even though Ed wasn't quite caught up on what was going on.

Grissom was standing. "I'm coming over there. I need you to tell me what's going on."

"_What'd you say?"_

The lead CSI sighed and slowed his speech once more. "I'm coming to the hospital. Which one?"

Brass gave a name that Ed didn't quite catch now that Grissom was facing away from him, snatching his coat from the hanger behind his desk. After a moment, the man laid the phone back in its cradle and turned around. He looked ready to sprint out the door, before he caught sight of Ed. Grissom stared at him as if he'd completely forgotten he was there—which was entirely probable, all things considered.

After a moment, he seemed to come to a decision.

"Come on, Ed," Grissom said, snatching up what Ed suspected had been the next book in line for him and making his way to the door. The blonde closed his book and uncurled himself, following after the lead CSI, text clutched in his hand with a finger marking his place. They made their silent way down the hallway to the break room, Ed keeping up with Grissom's hurried strides with the ease of long practice.

The lead CSI pulled the glass door open and glanced around the room, before sighing and pulling his head back out. Without a word, he closed the door once more and motioned with his head for Ed to follow him again.

The next door they came to bore the words '_Catherine Willows, CSI'_ on a small plaque beside it. Grissom pulled the door open after knocking quickly, and Ed followed him in as he entered.

"What's up, Grissom?" the woman asked from behind a small desk where she seemed to be perusing a number of files. Her eyes passed from the older man to the teen standing just behind him and to the right. "Something happen?"

Grissom gave a sigh. "I need you to watch Ed for about an hour." Ed felt his eye twitch at that—he did _not_ need a babysitter!—but couldn't say anything because Grissom simply carried on speaking. "I got a call from Brass; he needs some help."

Catherine's brow furrowed. "What sort of help?"

"Not sure. I'll let you know when I get back."

Catherine seemed to take this in stride, and nodded. "Well, you're in luck," she said briskly. "I just got back from lunch. I'll watch him."

The tick in Ed's eye only increased, but again, his pending rant was cut off by Grissom as he stepped forward and placed the book he was holding on her desk. "Thanks, Cath. I owe you one." With a slight, tight smile and a little wave, the man was gone from the office, the door clicking shut behind him.

There was silence for a few seconds, before Catherine finally picked up the book and made a strange face.

"_Fundamentals of Entomology_? Why in the world did he give me this?"

Ed shrugged as he took a step forward and, with a practised flip of his flesh foot, turned the chair in front of the desk so that it skidded across the floor and settled as close to the corner of the room as it could with the shelving around the room. "Probably for me," he said casually with a wave of his hand as he flopped into the chair, his back to the corner. He may not be in Amestris anymore, but his defensive habits were definitely hard to break after all these years. (And the fact that there seemed to be a somewhat psychotic killer trying to poison him was a decent argument towards keeping those instincts as sharp as ever.) He tried not to smirk at the odd silence that followed his pronouncement as he opened the book he'd been carrying and set his eyes to the page.

"Why in the _world _are you reading something like this?" came the incredulous response that he'd been hoping for. Really, he couldn't help it. It was _fun_ baffling people who underestimated him.

Trying—and just barely succeeding—to hide his amusement, he looked up at her from the book. "Because I want to."

Catherine just gaped at him for a moment, before laying her hands firmly on the desk and standing. "Oh, no you don't. I'm not letting Grissom turn you into a mini-nerd. You need something real to read."

It was with a sinking sense of foreboding that Ed watched the determined woman reach over to a shelf and extract what looked like... a _novel_.

His half-smile dropped off, and his grip on his book tightened as she came closer, novel in hand and a glint in her eye that reminded him disturbingly of Breda when the second lieutenant was determined to make Ed play chess with him.

Nothing good ever came out of that look. _Ever_.

"Here. Read some decent literature," Catherine told him firmly, reaching out to grab the large text in his hand. Ed held on stubbornly as she tried to pull it away.

"Hey! I'm reading this!" he growled, pulling it back out of the woman's grip.

"You can't actually find that interesting, Ed," Catherine scoffed in a way that he just _knew_ she used on her daughter. It was _that_ tone. The Mother Tone.

Ed crossed his arms over his chest. He hadn't had a mother in over seven years. It was _not _going to work on him! "I find it perfectly interesting. A lot better than whatever crap _that_ is." He nodded his chin mockingly at the novel in her hand.

"Well, I guess you'll just have to find out for yourself." Before he had the chance to react, her free hand snaked out and stole the textbook from his lap while his hands were occupied.

With a strangled protest, Ed tried to reach out and snatch the book back, but was stopped as the novel was dropped unceremoniously into his lap.

"Read it. Maybe you'll like it." Catherine gave the textbook in her hands a slightly perturbed look. "We've already got one Grissom around here; we don't need another one."

With that, she went and sat again at her desk, taking both the book she'd stolen from him—_stolen_ from him! She'd stolen his book!—and the one Grissom had put on her desk and unceremoniously dumped them into the bottom drawer of the desk.

Ed spent the next few seconds staring at her in shocked irritation. She proceeded to ignore him completely, flipping casually through the papers before her.

He then spent a good five minutes contemplating the pros and cons of throwing the novel at her head and making a dive for the desk drawer. He'd almost finished that book, damnit! It was like... like leaving out the last chord in a piece of music! (Not that he actually knew exactly how that felt; but he'd heard a number of people—including Winry, of all people—use that comparison for things left unfinished.) It just didn't work that way!

After finally determining that, no, he probably wouldn't be able to get his book back with that plan—the novel really didn't weigh enough to do any damage, and Catherine's similarity to Hawkeye told him that she'd kick his ass if he tried—he heaved a heavy sigh. Maybe, if he just suffered through the novel, she'd give the textbook back.

Looking down at the novel's title, he quickly revised that thought. There was no way in hell he'd suffer through _this_.

He'd thought Sara had been kidding when she'd said Catherine had romance novels.

"I refuse to read something with the word 'naked' in the title," he informed her firmly, shoving the novel off of his lap in disgust.

Catherine finally looked up and graced him with a sceptical, raised-eyebrow look.

"I don't read _romance novels_," he added with a tight grimace.

"So the fact that it's 'Naked _in Death_' means nothing to you?" she asked after a second of looking between him and the novel on the floor.

"That just tells me it's a _tacky_ romance novel," Ed said matter-of-factly.

Catherine shook her head with a tiny laugh. "You're something else, you know that, Ed?"

He merely crossed his arms and glared at her.

"Why don't you just give it a chance? I promise it's not a romance novel."

"And what is it, then?"

Catherine rested her chin on her fist. "A murder mystery. J.D. Robb's a renowned mystery writer."

"A mystery," Ed repeated flatly, fixing her with a blank golden stare. "A mystery with the title '_Naked in Death_'."

Catherine gave a nod and a little hum of agreement, her eyes sparkling in a way that did not bode well for his sanity if he bothered to pick up the book.

"I'm not reading it," Ed decided resolutely. "Give me my book back."

"Not until you read something that doesn't make most people's brains melt," the evil woman replied, turning back to her papers and proceeding to ignore him.

"Your idea of brain-melting literature is obviously warped," Ed muttered after a moment, glaring at the blonde woman, who continued to ignore him.

He was _not_ going to read that novel, no matter what Catherine tried. Grissom said he'd be gone for what, an hour? He could sit tight for that long. Once the lead CSI came back, he'd get his books back, and then leave the presence of this... this... _she-devil_ who didn't appreciate proper literature.

Yes .He'd just wait. Wait and stare at the picture frames adorning the walls... Listen to the shuffling of papers and the scratch of a pen as Catherine worked... Feel the boredom clawing away at his brain and making his fingers twitch...

...Damnit.

* * *

"What in the world _happened_ to you, Jim?" Grissom asked incredulously as he met his old friend in the lobby of the hospital.

"Long story, Gil," Brass replied, his voice still slightly louder than usual as he dug a finger into one of his ears. Both of his palms were wrapped tightly in bandages, and Grissom could see a number of angry red scrapes across the still-exposed skin of his fingers. His face and neck had the shiny, lobster-red look of someone who'd spent a little too much time in the sun. The captain was seated in one of the many chairs, his right foot propped up on the chair opposite and encased in a solid plastic brace with a number of ice packs wedged around it. A small pair of crutches were leaned against the chair beside him. Grissom sat on his other side.

"Why don't you start with what caused all this?" the lead CSI asked in concern, gesturing at Brass in general.

"Told you, Gil," Brass sighed. "An explosion."

"Yeah, but how? Where? What happened?" Grissom was growing slightly frustrated; he usually didn't have to dig for answers from the detective. Usually, Brass was the more matter-of-fact of the two of them. Riddles and vague responses were Grissom's forte.

Brass gave a heavy sigh. "He knew we were coming, Gil."

Grissom sucked in a startled breath. "What?"

The other man's hand reached into his jacket pocket, pulling out what looked like a crumpled, somewhat charred piece of paper. Grissom took it carefully, gaze narrowed.

The two words written across the front of what appeared to be an envelope seemed to burn into his eyes.

"Found that in the middle of the floor of a shed at the fourth site," Brass was saying, oblivious to—or ignoring—his old friend's shock. "And that's not the only thing."

Grissom turned his eyes to the serious captain's face.

"There was some kind of motion-sensing trigger under it, and that started a countdown when I took the letter. Got out of there as fast as we could, and then boom!" Brass gestured into the air with his hands. "The entire shed's lit up like the fourth of July, and we're sent flying all over the place. Doyland ended up hitting one of the concrete pillars there; gave himself a decent concussion and a few broken ribs, but they say he'll be fine. Me, I was left with a sprained ankle and half my hearing." He again dug a finger into his ear. "Which they say will hopefully be back completely in the next few days."

Grissom stared at him for a moment. "So you mean to tell me that our killer knew exactly where we'd be looking for him, and even rigged explosives under a storage shed that anyone could have tripped?"

Brass raised an eyebrow. "We've had weirder things before."

"True..." Grissom murmured in agreement.

But, as he looked again at the envelope that so clearly proclaimed his name in slightly charred letters, he got the strangest feeling that he wasn't so sure.

* * *

"The senator did it."

Catherine blinked and looked up at the blonde teen sitting in the corner. "What?"

"The senator. That DeBlass guy. He did it. And probably his assistant, too," Ed repeated, tossing the novel that he'd finally picked up across the room so that it skidded along her desk before coming to rest in the middle of her paperwork.

Catherine glanced between Ed and the novel before her several times, before her stare settled on the teen. "You've been reading for two minutes." She'd done a little dance of victory in her mind when Ed had finally—after a good forty-five minutes of staring around the office and fidgeting—picked the novel up off the floor and grudgingly opened to the first page. She hadn't expected him to turn around and predict the ending when he was only a few pages in!

"And? It's not like it was hard. Actually, it was kind of obvious." Ed crossed his arms over his chest and kicked his foot out onto the chair's arm, lounging slightly with a look on his face that said he was enjoying her shock.

She blinked at him. There was nothing she could say in response to _that_. Because, in her humble opinion, the ending was anything _but _obvious. Even she, a person who worked with solving crimes for a _living_, hadn't seen that one coming. Actually, now that she thought about it... Grissom had read the book a few years back as well (on her insistence, of course)—and it had taken him at _least_ until the fifteenth chapter to figure it out.

"You looked at the ending," Catherine accused, the only possibility that popped into her mind.

Ed gave her an insulted look. "I didn't have to look at the ending to figure that one out." Then he smirked. "Looks like I'm right, anyway."

She sputtered for a moment. "So you're not even going to try and enjoy reading it?"

Ed snorted. "There's not much to enjoy when you already know the ending. And anyway, you said it wasn't a romance novel. Well, I can guarantee that that... _thing_ between Dallas and Roarke develops into something mushy and romantic and just plain _annoying_."

Catherine's eyes narrowed. "Got something against 'mushy and romantic'?"

Ed levelled her with a flat stare. "Catherine. Mrs. Willows. I am a _sixteen year old male._ Even if I _liked_ novels, I can guarantee I wouldn't be caught dead reading something like _that_."

And as much as she wanted to contest that, she was forced to admit that he had a point.

"So can I have my book back now?"

Her determination hardened as she looked over at him. "No. I'm going to make you appreciate proper literature."

The murderous glare directed at her was probably only halted from turning into an act of violence by the sound of a knock on the door.

* * *

When Catherine bid him enter, Grissom stepped into the office, the envelope Brass had given him still tight in his grasp. Scanning the room, he tried not to read too deeply into Ed's sudden look of relief when he caught sight of the teen. Surely Catherine's company wasn't _that_ bad? Though the lack of book in his lap might have had something to do with it...

"So what's up, Grissom?" Catherine's voice called him back from his slight musings.

"I'm going to need you to watch Ed for awhile longer," he said, not answering her question. After all, he didn't really have answers at the moment.

He tried his best to ignore the shocked choking sound from Ed's corner.

"Sure," Catherine replied briskly. "In fact, we should probably be heading home in a few hours anyway. He can just stay with me."

Grissom smiled gratefully. "Thanks, Cath." With that, he turned and made his way out of the office, not noticing the dejected look of betrayal and pleading in Ed's eyes as he closed the door.

Re-entering his own office, Grissom took a seat at the desk, and pulled out a pair of latex gloves from the box he kept in the side drawer. Even though Brass and he had agreed that there was probably little evidence to be found on the envelope, it never hurt to be cautious.

Breaking the seal on the back of the envelope and parting the slightly charred and somewhat delicate sides, he pulled out a single sheet of white—or mostly white, around the scorch marks—paper. Unfolding it gently, he laid it on his desk and read the still-legible print.

_Bravo, Mister Grissom, bravo indeed! It seems I did not underestimate your investigating skills at all._

_Congratulations on connecting the dots. I find myself strangely excited while facing a mind of your calibre. When you put your heart into it, you do not disappoint._

_Let's play a game. And not something as dreary as this constant cat and mouse. You see, I find myself in a bit of an intellectual quandary. There are so few things that pique my interest recently—besides the obvious, of course. And this battle of wills we've been having is, frankly, a most entertaining distraction._

_Let's up the stakes a little bit, shall we? Me demanding the evidence... You demanding more clues... Well, that's just boring. Why don't we turn it into something fun?_

_I look forward to it. _

_Oh, and by the way, this is your third warning. How is your pet doing recently?_

Before he had even a moment to try and interpret what the psychopath was trying to say, his phone rang.

"Grissom," he answered.

Warrick's voice was strangely subdued. "_Gris... there's another body here."_

* * *

**Bwahahahaha...**

**Let me know what you folks thought of this chapter. You know I love hearing from you! (And I especially love the fact that this story is on almost as many alerts as it has reviews! I love you guys... so much.)**

**I have nothing against J.D. Robb or her works; but you guys know how Ed is. ;)**

**Also, a tiny bit of self-advertising: I've started two new, distinctly different HP fics. One, "The Taming of the Sue", is a crack fic, while the other, "To Be Brothers", is a more serious, likely epic-length Harry Potter x Rurouni Kenshin crossover. I'd very much appreciate it if you went over and took a look at what I've got so far! :)**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-AkitaFallow**


	14. Terrors of the Past

**I have to admit, this chapter came out ridiculously more emotional than I anticipated. And I got some plot inspiration. So hopefully these stupid blocks will cease.**

**This chapter makes specific reference to the Season 5 finale of CSI, "Grave Danger". Look it up if you can; it's worth it, and will give a bit more insight into what our characters are talking about.**

**Warnings: Angst, and lots of it. A little bit of foul language.**

* * *

Grissom tried not to ponder too much as he drove. Nor did he try to wonder how this new victim's family would react when they heard. Nor did he try to draw parallels between this drive and the one that had started this whole mess.

Of course, trying didn't really stop him from thinking any of those things.

He sighed as the construction site finally came into view. As he pulled his SUV through the newly-opened fencing and parked, he grimaced at the sight of shrapnel littering the mutilated ground. Explosions always equalled a world of trouble with evidence.

But his eyes were quickly drawn to the far side of the explosion site when he stepped forward after closing the vehicle door.

The hole in the ground where the shack used to be was, like the rest of the site, littered with tattered sheets of metal and chunks of dirt, but that was not what drew his gaze. It was the partial remains of a large perspex box that was buried half in the side of the hole, and the grisly sight within it.

_Oh no..._

The feeling of sickening déjà-vu was only emphasized when he spotted Warrick sitting in the dirt not far from the hole, his arm around Nick, whose own face was buried his hands.

Warrick caught his eye as he approached and slowly stood, giving Nick's shoulder a quick squeeze as he stood.

"Hey, Gris," he murmured, his eyes darting back to Nick's curled form as he spoke with the lead CSI. "It's... yeah."

Grissom understood already, and sighed again. "I'll talk to him. You start looking it over."

Warrick's lips tightened as he nodded. Grissom understood that too; no one really wanted to take this one. It hit too close to home.

As Warrick grabbed his own kit from off to the side and stepped toward the hole, Grissom took a seat next to Nick.

"Hey, buddy," he said gently, putting a hand on the younger man's trembling shoulder.

Nick took a deep breath, and then suddenly swore explosively. "She was alive, Gris! Damnit, she was still alive!" His hands came up to grip his hair. "She was still alive and we weren't here to help her and we should have been—"

"Nick." Grissom put his hand on the back of the other man's neck. "Nicky. Look at me." There was no reaction for a moment, except for near-silent sobs. But finally, Nick raised his watery eyes to look at his mentor.

"There was nothing you could have done." He held up his other hand as Nick opened his mouth to protest, his eyes wide and wild, like a caged animal. Memories swirled behind that gaze, memories of pain and darkness and suffocating on his own panic. "Nothing. We didn't know she was here. We wouldn't have found out she was here at all without the explosion. We had no clues. There was _nothing_ you could have possibly done."

"But we could've!" Nick insisted, his hands curling into violent fists. "We should have known she was missing—known she was here! We should have... should have...!" His voice choked off as emotions made him shake and his nails bite into his hand. "Hell, Gris, we're supposed to be able to save people like this! And now we're gonna have to tell her family that we didn't get here in time to help their little girl, and they can't even see her body because it's—" his voice broke with another sob.

Grissom closed his eyes for a moment, abruptly feeling an echo of the same emotions that he'd felt two years ago, when Nick himself had been so abruptly kidnapped from their midst. There was nothing he could say to comfort the man; not after something like this.

He watched Warrick stooping in the hole with his camera, taking pictures of the perspex coffin that had become the girl's last resting place. It made him wonder, with a sickening twist in his gut, exactly what Nick himself would have looked like had they not identified the explosives placed in the coffin his kidnapper had trapped him in before trying to get him out. It made him wonder, with a strange sort of detached horror, what that girl must have been feeling in the minutes, hours, maybe even days before the explosion had gone off and they had found her as she was.

But most of all, it made him wonder exactly how they were going to work through this if the perpetrator was somehow connected to Nick's own kidnapping. How much did he know?

Nick sucked in a sharp breath after a moment, and made a motion to stand. Grissom's hand on his neck, which had been rubbing soothing circles, held him down.

"Lemme go, Grissom," he muttered, his voice somewhat choked. "I need to... need to do something."

"You need to calm down, Nick," Grissom replied gently but firmly. "You know as well as I do that you're not in a fit state to take care of something like this."

"Like hell I'm not!" Nick growled, making another half-hearted attempt to stand. "I need to do this, Gris. I _have _to."

"You'll make mistakes."

Nick paused in his weak struggling. He stared at his hands, held loosely between his knees. "Grissom..." he started, and then sighed, rubbing his face. "I need to do this." At Grissom's look, he clenched his fist. "I know... I know I'm emotionally involved in this case now. I _know _that. But... but I can't just do nothing. She... Gris, that could have been me. That could have been _me._" Another wet choke made its way out of his chest. Grissom's heart clenched. "She... she would have been so scared. So afraid and pleading and trying to find a way out, but she didn't have one. She didn't. She just had to lie there, screaming and begging someone to find her and they _didn't_—"

Grissom closed his eyes in pain. He could remember all to clearly watching through the camera that Nick's kidnapper had installed into that box—watching as Nick screamed and struggled and cried like he'd never done before in panic; watching as the younger man—one he thought of as nearly a son—lifted the gun, a single bullet in the barrel, as if he were going to end it while they were still trying to find him, while they were trying to get him out—

He had to violently wrench his thoughts from that line. He wasn't one to be afraid of facing his memories, but these were far too personal right now.

"We didn't," Grissom agreed, and felt Nick's eyes on him as he watched Warrick again. Then he turned his head and met the younger man's gaze. "But the least we can do for her is to find the one who did this to her."

He watched with something akin to saddened fascination as Nick rallied himself; something in his eyes hardened over his pain. He took a deep breath, and his fists unclenched slowly. The muscles beneath Grissom's hand remained taut, but there was a distinct difference in Nick's outward appearance, as if he had shed the pain and torturous memories like a second skin and emerged a slightly stronger—but still heavily burdened—man.

"Yeah," he agreed weakly, his voice tired, as he dashed the last traces of tears from his eyes. "We can do that."

This time, when Nick tried to stand, Grissom didn't stop him, letting his hand fall back to the dirt beside him. He saw Warrick's surprise and worried wariness as Nick approached, but didn't protest as the other CSI slipped on a pair of gloves and stepped into the hole with only a moment's hesitation.

Grissom felt a strange swell of warmth in his chest as he watched. This was someone he'd mentored for years, and he was overcoming—or, at the very least, working with—something that would have crippled him years before. Nick was facing the horrors of his past in the best way he knew how.

This was one of his CSIs, and he was proud.

* * *

Ed tried not to think that maybe, just maybe, he was enjoying this. It would be a little too much like saying that she was right.

But... maybe she _was _right.

_No, she's not_, his mind insisted as he sat in the chair and stared out the window for a moment at the lights reflected in the air over the houses. Because that would be a little too much like saying he was _wrong._ Which couldn't happen, because his mother had tried to get him to do this for years and had never succeeded, so Catherine had no chance. None at all.

He huffed to himself as he laid _The Fellowship of the Ring_ down on his lap. _No_, he was certainly _not _enjoying himself. He'd finished the novel for purely academic purposes.

Purely academic. Which implied that he had most certainly _not _found himself caught up in a fantasy world with a quest to destroy a magical ring. He had most certainly _not_ found himself identifying with Frodo Baggins' determination and Samwise Gamgee's loyalty and Strider's protectiveness. He had most certainly _not_ given credence to the fact that yes, it was fantasy, but it was actually _believable_ fantasy.

He had most certainly done none of those things. Because he wasn't enjoying himself.

"Enjoying yourself?"

Ed jumped slightly as Catherine came into the living room with a knowing smirk on her face, though it seemed to falter just slightly when she saw the book lying finished on his lap. It _had_ been just over an hour, after all.

Ed, stubborn as usual—though Al would have just called it pig-headed—crossed his arms and simply gave a half-hearted glare.

Catherine only laughed and pulled another book down from the shelf and tossed it on his lap. "Here's the second one."

He tried not to feel pleased as she turned and walked out with a small smirk, the scent of dinner (which was really breakfast, he supposed) wafting through the door. Because after all, he was _not _enjoying himself. Even if he was fighting against the ever-present itch of tiredness in his eyes. It was because he didn't want to sleep in an armchair, is all.

_You keep telling yourself that_, a voice that sounded suspiciously like Al's whispered as he picked up _The Two Towers_ and turned to the first page. He studiously ignored it.

* * *

Catherine smiled as she stirred the spaghetti. She had truly thought that getting Ed to read something other than the dry textbook that Grissom had given her was an endeavour doomed from the start; what she'd seen of the blonde so far had been a stoically pig-headed teenager who didn't listen to anything anyone told him. She'd almost given up a number of times in the two hours after Grissom left the lab again; after all, most of the books in her office were either murder mystery or, more commonly, romance. After the fourth novel she pulled out and shoved into his hands, Ed had thrown up his arms and told her he was going to look for Sara.

Sara promptly brought him back five minutes later after she'd found him rooting around in the refrigerator for something other than "half-dead jarred insects and musty bags of random crap". Ed was no longer permitted to wander the lab without supervision.

It had taken another ten minutes of Ed's constant sighing as he sat in his seat, along with a gratuitous amount of shifting and eye-rolling, before Catherine decided that it wouldn't hurt to leave work fifteen minutes early.

But it turned out her last ditch effort to get the sixteen-year-old into novel reading—because what sort of kid who wasn't Grissom read _textbooks_ for fun?—had been a success. Ed hadn't been receptive to her cajoling at first; it had taken a threat not to let him eat dinner if he didn't at least try the book before he actually stayed in the the chair and opened _The Lord of the Rings_.

It had only been after a full half hour of silence from the room that Catherine noticed that Ed was actually _reading _it.

Her smile widened as she dumped the pasta into a colander and ran water over it. _It seems he hasn't had a chance to read some good fantasy before,_ she mused. _I'm glad Lindsey kept those books, because I'm certainly not into that sort of thing._

She dumped the pasta back into the pot and put it on the table along with the sauce she'd been making, before calling Ed's name.

There was no response, but she wasn't really looking for one. She'd seen Ed's almost trance-like state during reading when she'd first checked on him. Stepping into the living room, she was about to say his name again when she noticed the book lying half-closed on his lap, _The Fellowship of the Ring_ lying fully on the floor as if dropped there.

His eyes were closed, and his breaths came deep and slow as he slept.

Catherine's lips twitched upwards as she crossed her arms and leaned against the door frame. It was really no surprise he'd fallen asleep; after all, a night-shift schedule took a lot of getting used to. She wondered if maybe it would be easier just to let Ed stay up during the day and sleep when they got to the lab each night. Goodness knows he'd be easier to deal with and it would keep him out of trouble. There was really no need to turn him nocturnal...

She promptly revised this thought when she realized that it would involve Ed being awake in the house while she was asleep and Lindsey was at school. Which was probably even worse.

He looked so much younger this way; so much more... innocent. When he was awake, there were strange lines around his eyes, and his eyes themselves... they were like molten gold, just as vibrant and just as intense. When he looked at you, you had no choice but to think of him as a man, with a man's cares and a man's burden. But now? Now, he just looked like... like the little lost kitten that Grissom's mysterious letter writer kept referring to him as. Sure, she could see the squareness of jaw and sharpness of features that signalled the man he would one day become, but there was still a softness to his face that said he was still growing, still young enough to not need the burdens he seemed to carry everywhere with him.

Just then, Ed twitched slightly in his sleep, and his sleeve slid back somewhat against the chair's arm, revealing a glint of metal beneath.

Catherine frowned then. Yes, Ed looked innocent and vulnerable in his sleep, but she couldn't shake the thought that he had been far more mature than he needed to be for far too long. That arm... His leg, too... those were testaments to how much this boy had struggled. How much he had lost in his quest for...

For what?

What was this boy, this boy who wasn't a man in body but most certainly was in spirit, trying to gain? Why wasn't he as relatively carefree as her own daughter was? What was he trying to prove to people? He most certainly didn't' live on the streets—his clothes, although dirty and somewhat worn, were most certainly expensive. Leather didn't come cheap, and from what she'd seen of his cloak, it was well-made as well. He wasn't even a runaway, because she couldn't see someone like Ed running away from any situation, and she'd done enough profiling to know the type. So what was he after?

And then she remembered something the guard at the station had said in the midst of his ramblings about magic.

"_He said he'd got something to do, something important... I don't know, but he made the damn floor turn into paste!"_

Something he had to do...

Grissom's voice.

"_He wants to find his brother. At least, that's what he told us in the park."_

His brother.

Strangely enough, Catherine could quite easily see Ed in the older brother role; there was something about him that made her think instantly of _protector—_he was not one to be coddled, but was far more likely to be the one coddling someone else. In an odd way, he almost reminded her of herself—of a parent, giving up things for himself in an effort to make life better for the one he was looking after.

But why would he be looking for him? It certainly wasn't that easy to lose a brother, of all things.

She felt a moment of sudden insight, and her heart nearly stopped.

_If he's looking for his brother... and the killer knows all about Ed... could there be a connection?_

She sincerely hoped not, because if so, this case had just gotten a whole hell of a lot more complicated.

A small noise derailed that train of thought, and her eyes refocused on the blonde who was sitting in her living room chair.

Or, more accurately, _had_ been sitting in her living room chair.

Ed was already in the process of slipping straight onto the ground, pitching forwards as if he had been shoved from behind. She stepped forward quickly, but before she could reach him, he was already up on his hands and knees, panting. Concerned, she got down on her knees immediately and tried to reach out to him.

A broken sob stopped her short, her eyes going wide. A second sound, as though he were choking, restarted her.

"Ed? Are you alright?" she asked in alarm, reaching a hand towards him.

The arm she touched flew out from under her fingers, his gloved hand suddenly clenched against his chest, as though something there pained him. His breathing hitched, and a broken keening tore its way from his throat. Catherine caught sight of his face. His eyes were open and staring, wide and panicked and—her heart lurched—filled with pain. A second later, his right arm gave out beneath him and he pitched forward again, this time doing nothing to stop his fall.

Her hand was already reaching for the phone to call 9-1-1 even as she rolled him onto his side. His hand was still clenched tightly to his chest, crushing the leather in an iron-like grip.

"Ed, can you hear me?" She snapped her fingers in front of his glazed eyes, but there was no response. Suddenly, he began to cough, and she was alarmed to hear a wet rattle behind it.

_Oh god, does he have internal bleeding?_

How could the doctors have missed this? Shit, they needed an ambulance!

Just as her fingers pressed the first digit on the phone, Ed's coughs and pained moans broke in a strange way.

A strange, familiar way.

Catherine froze.

As she watched, Ed's eyes focussed slightly, and slow tears began to leak down the side of his face. A moment later, a vicious half-sob escaped the teen's mouth, and his left hand suddenly unclenched from his shirt and came up to wrap around his head, burying his face in his elbow even as he curled into a ball.

She held her breath just in case, but her mom instincts told her more than her still-panicked mind did.

A nightmare.

Before the thought had even fully registered in her brain, she had him in her arms, long-practiced instincts taking over. It didn't matter that this boy had only been in her house for barely two days; it didn't matter that he was stubborn as a mule and fiercely independent. It didn't matter, because he was hurting right now, and he had no one else to fix it for him.

She heard herself whispering the same soothing nonsense she'd used so many times with Lindsey as more half-sobs tore themselves out of Ed's throat as though they had to fight to make themselves known. She got the strong impression that this was a boy who rarely—if ever—cried.

She almost missed it when he started muttering brokenly under his breath.

"—can't, I can't... Al... I can't die, not now..!."

Her heart, still trying to calm itself, abruptly beat faster.

"Ed, what are you talking about?"

The sudden sharpness of her voice seemed to knock him straight out of whatever half-nightmare he was still living in. With a swiftness that astounded her, he rolled out of her arms and came up in a crouch on the carpet four feet away, his arms raised defensively and his breath coming in uneven gasps.

"What the hell?" His voice cracked on the last word as his eyes darted around the room in confusion before settling on her. She stayed perfectly still as comprehension slowly leaked into his gaze, and a little of the tension eased from his frame, to be replaced with another sort of guarded wariness.

After a moment, Catherine found her voice. "Ed... What was that?"

His eyes immediately turned away from her gaze. His hand came up to rub at his eyes, and when he brought his fingers away, he stared at the dampness on his ever-present glove as though it were something entirely foreign and offensive.

"...Ed?"

He visibly shook himself. "Nothing. It was nothing." She watched, curious and worried, as he began to unconsciously rub the place on his chest he had been clutching so hard before.

"It was most certainly not 'nothing'," she said sharply. "You scared me half to death."

Ed's face twitched, and she could hear his teeth grinding. "It was just a nightmare," he finally grunted, the words forced out through unwilling lips. It was like he was admitting a weakness, a flaw that he never wanted to have.

She pounced on that.

"Edward." She stood carefully. "I know the difference between a simple nightmare and reliving memories." She watched his eyes go slightly wider. "That was no nightmare."

"What are you trying to say?" he demanded, probably a tad more unsteadily than he'd intended.

"What memory is so violent that I almost called an ambulance for you?"

Ed's hand stopped massaging his chest and instead clenched around the leather once more. "It's nothing important," he muttered stubbornly. Catherine opened her mouth to reply when Ed turned his back on her and stepped towards the doorway. "I'm hungry. Is dinner ready yet?"

Catherine felt her temper rear.

"Edward Elric, I thought you were _dying_. The least you can do is give me a reason!" she snapped.

Ed froze.

Time seemed to stand still, and she held her breath.

Then she heard him mutter something about hawks and eyes under his breath before turning back, a pinched look of indecision on his face.

She knew that look intimately, having seen it on her daughter's face far too often.

"I'm not going to tell anyone, if that's what you're worried about," she assured him.

He half-rolled his eyes, as though her suggestion of him being worried was entirely laughable, but she could see something in his expression that relaxed at her words.

They stood there in a silent standoff for another minute. Catherine mentally thanked God that she had learned patience with her own child as Ed visibly warred with himself.

Just when it seemed that he was going to turn around and walk out, her mouth opened of its own accord.

"Ed... who's Al?"

The teen flinched and stared at her with wide eyes. "How do you know his name?" he demanded.

"You were apologizing to him." At Ed's look, she elaborated. "In your nightmare."

Ed abruptly sighed deeply and leaned against the door frame, his forehead on his hand. After a moment of silence, he spoke.

"Alphonse. He's my brother." The blonde's voice sounded impossibly weary.

Catherine took a hesitant step forward. "Where is he now?"

"I don't know!" he moaned, with a strange tone in his voice that she had never heard before.

"You told Brass you wanted to find him. Did he disappear? Was he kidnapped?" she pressed, feeling urgency rise within her. If Alphonse was missing under strange circumstances, then they had to know. They had to know if there was some other aspect to this case that they weren't aware of.

Ed ran an agitated hand through his hair. "No—well, kind of... no. Not really, but—augh! I don't know!" His hand now shadowed his eyes, shoving his bangs back from his face. "I just... I have to find him, okay?" Abruptly, he turned and stalked through the doorway. Worried, Catherine followed silently. "I have to find him, and all I'm doing is sitting here and doing _nothing_!" She tried not to flinch when Ed's hand hit the table, making the dishes rattle. At least it was only his left hand. "But I can't do anything yet because I have no idea where to _look_!" His right hand joined his left with a bang. "Damnit!"

Silence echoed for a moment, broken only by Ed's harsh breaths as he leaned over the kitchen table. Hesitantly, Catherine stepped forward and put a hand on his shoulder, ignoring the slight flinch it garnered from him.

"Ed... We can help you look. Just tell us what he looks like, and we can help you find him. That's what we do." She tried to keep her anxiety out of her voice, because she didn't want to think of all the possible things that could have happened to his brother. Hell, she didn't even know how old Alphonse was! For all she knew, there could be a toddler wandering around Las Vegas. If they had any hope of finding him, Ed had to help them.

"He's... he's..." Ed's hands clenched on the tabletop. "He might be... Shit, I don't even know anymore!" The desperate helplessness in his voice nearly broke her heart. "What kind of brother _am_ I?"

Catherine bit her lip and squeezed his shoulder for a moment. "Why... why don't we eat something and head to bed?" she suggested gently. "We can talk about this tomorrow."

She almost thought he hadn't heard her, until after a pause he nodded, his face still shadowed by his bangs. With gentle coaxing, she had him sitting in a chair, and a small plate of spaghetti placed before him along with the medication he had to take.

It was a silent meal except for the quiet clinking of silverware on dishes. Catherine watched Ed carefully, but all the teenager did was eat slowly, taking his medication willing while his eyes remained shuttered.

When he finally put down his utensils, she stood.

"If you head to your room already, I can find you something to wear for the night."

Ed simply nodded and stood, making his way down the hall until he was out of sight. Catherine sighed, making her way downstairs and opening a box that hadn't been touched for a good few years.

When she knocked on Ed's bedroom door a minute later, shirt and pants in hand, she didn't pause before stepping into the room.

"I found some old clothes from my ex-husband; they might be a little big, but—"

Both of them froze. Catherine, standing just inside the door, one hand on the knob and the other holding out the small bundle of clothes...

And Ed, half-turned toward the door, his arms raised in the act of removing his black tank top.

For the first time, she had a full view of the teenager's bare torso. Her eyes took a moment to latch onto the base of Ed's metal arm; the bolts that looked as though they were drilled straight into his bones and the scarring surrounding it nearly made her shudder. But a second later, her gaze slid across his surprisingly well-muscled chest and landed on something else.

With a sickening jolt in her stomach, she knew what Ed's nightmare had been about.

An uneven circle of scar tissue nearly six inches across marred his chest just left of center... right where his heart would be.

"What..." She could barely find her voice.

That one word seemed to unfreeze the blonde, and he immediately reached forward and snatched the clothes out of her hand before turning away, inadvertently exposing a _second,_ equally large scar on his back.

It was as if something had been impaled straight through his chest.

Catherine felt like she was going to be sick.

Finally, as Ed was unfolding the shirt with jerking movements, her throat unstuck.

"What happened to you?"

Ed paused at her weak inquiry, and looked over his shoulder at her with dark eyes. "I was protecting my brother."

Her mind reeled at the possible meanings of that statement. What could have possibly threatened him so greatly that Ed would receive a wound like _that_?

She took an unconscious step forward, her hand reaching out as if to touch him but stopping short.

The only other time she had ever seen something like this...

Had been on a corpse.

"Edward... How did you survive this?"

But he was already pulling the shirt down and turning his back on her with finality, and she knew with a strange certainty that she would get no more answers out of him today. With a shaky sigh, she backed out of the room and closed the door.

She tried to pretend that the half-heard murmur of "I didn't..." was simply her ears playing tricks on her.

* * *

**So, as always, I apologize for the wait. I will say this: I'm looking to do this fic for Camp NaNoWriMo this August, so hopefully that will get much more meat into this story, at a much faster pace. I will let you guys know.**

**Important notes in regards to where this is going: I have to say, one of the most amusing things to read is your guys' assumptions about this fic... But sometimes you guys are wording them in ways that turn them into god-given fact, which they aren't. I know y'all are wondering where this is going and who the bad guy is... but nothing is set in stone, except in my brain. I know **_**exactly**_** who the Big Bad is, and I know **_**exactly**_** how I'm going to work this.**

**I will say that I do enjoy reading the possible directions this fic can go... as long as they are not written as givens. It's slightly annoying to be asked when something specific will happen in my fic, or even ordered to add it, when there is no guarantee that that something is ever going to be present. So, hit me with your best "maybes". :)**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-AkitaFallow**


	15. A Beautiful Friendship

**!IMPORTANT NOTE!**

**I have had a number of reviewers asking about the scar on Ed's chest; I seem to have caused some confusion here. I will reiterate what I haven't actually mentioned since probably chapter three: This is based on the original anime timeline. Those who are familiar with it should recognize the fatal injury Ed received at the end of episode 50 when Envy actually put his arm through Ed's chest and killed him. This is the reason Al had to use the Philosopher's Stone that he'd been turned into in order to bring Ed back. **

**If you are still confused, please message me or watch the last few episodes of the original anime. I know a number of you are probably disappointed that I'm still following that timeline instead of Brotherhood or the manga (which I am absolutely in love with). I'm not going to change it, though, because my plot works much better with it, I've included specific original-anime scenes already in past chapters, and it would make less sense from the Brotherhood perspective. Though, if the mood does suddenly strike me, I may include a few manga-verse characters, though this does take place primarily in the CSI world and, as such, deals with only a small cast of FMA characters actually being present.**

* * *

"Alphonse Elric? Do we know anything else about him? An age? A description?"

Catherine shook her head, her lips pressed into a thin line. "No. Ed wouldn't... no, he _couldn't _tell me anything. He kept saying he 'didn't know anymore', like he hasn't seen his brother in... years."

Grissom glanced through the glass door of the break room for a moment as he rubbed his forehead, eyeing the teenager that currently sat at the table, reading a copy of _The Return of the King _and eating a banana for his dinner/breakfast_._ Finally, he sighed. "Run the name Elric through the system again. It wouldn't even hurt just to do a regular web search."

She gave a sharp nod; then something in her expression changed. Grissom's eyebrows came together, and he cocked his head.

Catherine sighed. "It's just... I was thinking about how much Ed has to do with this case, and..." she sighed again. "Maybe Alphonse is involved somehow, too."

He shook his head. The possibility had already occurred to him.

"There would have been a ransom, Catherine," he reassured her. "Or he would have been one of the murder victims." Catherine's eyes closed briefly as if in pain. "But he's not. And our killer doesn't seem like the type to hold people hostage without telling someone, if only so he could gloat about it."

His coworker took a deep breath. "I... I guess you're right. It was just a strange feeling."

Grissom raised an eyebrow. "We don't work with feelings. We work with facts."

She rolled her eyes at him, and then took a step back. He fully expected her to turn away and head back to her office to run an Elric search, as it was now his time to watch Ed, but she hesitated, a strange look on her face.

"He has... a strange scar," she said.

"What kind of strange?" Grissom prompted when she paused.

Catherine grimaced. "It looks like... like someone drove a four-inch pole through his chest. Right here." And her hand came up to the area directly over her heart.

Grissom's mind shuddered to a halt. _What?_

She drew a slightly shaky breath. "He said he got it while trying to protect his brother."

"He wouldn't have survived something like that," his mouth said automatically.

Catherine's eyes gained a strangely pinched look. "I know. He wouldn't say anything about it, though."

Grissom was still trying to process it when she finally gave him a sympathetic little smile and turned to go back to her office.

After a moment, he shook himself.

_There are too many secrets surrounding Edward Elric,_ he thought with no small amount of annoyance. _I think it's time he explained some things._

He turned to enter the break room, intent on getting his questions answered, when the opportunity slipped through his fingers. Because Doc Robbins had just entered the room.

* * *

The old man blinked.

Ed blinked back.

The old man eyed his slightly-exposed automail wrist.

Ed eyed the man's cane and the strange shape of his legs beneath his pants.

The old man pulled out a chair and sat down.

Ed sat up straight and eyed him.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the ticking of the clock.

The old man patted his knee.

"Car accident. I was eighteen."

Ed propped his left leg up on the chair next to him.

" Childhood stupidity. I was eleven."

The old man nodded, and held out a hand. "Al Robbins. Coroner and physiologist. Everyone calls me Doc."

Ed shook the hand firmly. "Edward Elric. Scientist. Everyone calls me Ed."

The old man—Doc—gave him a small smile and leaned back. "A scientist, eh? Sounds interesting. Any area in particular?"

Ed returned the smile. If it was a touch friendlier than usual, he didn't think about it. Because, for the first time in awhile, his credibility hadn't been questioned. The old man hadn't even blinked when a sixteen-year-old had introduced himself as having a profession.

"Chemistry, mostly. Some biology, as well. And little bits of whatever I can get my hands on."

Doc chuckled. "So I hear. Grissom's entomology books rarely saw eyes other than his own until now."

Ed shrugged. "I like to learn."

"As do I." Robbins' eyes slowly moved to the novel sitting on the table. "When you're done with that, I may have a few books you'd be interested in."

Ed blinked, before his smile widened. "I think I'll take you up on that."

It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship.

* * *

Doc liked this kid already.

It had been awhile since anyone but Grissom could give him a decent intelligent debate. He honestly didn't know how the conversation had gotten to this point, but he did know that he was most certainly enjoying it. Maybe it had been spurred by his thinly-veiled curiosity and even more thinly-veiled probing questions.

Though, an hour ago, if you had told him that he would be sitting in the break room with two distinctly different prosthetic limbs on the table and a bright-eyed teenager opposite him, both balancing on one leg and having a debate about something he'd actually thought about a lot but never told anyone, he would have probably laughed and told them to stop smoking whatever they were on.

"—and the weight alone would make it highly impractical."

"That's always a problem with it, but they're working on fixing that. This set's full steel, but another set I've worn was seventy one percent chrome. A lot lighter—"

"—but the durability decreased. Makes sense. But what about carbon fibre?"

"I wore a model once that was mainly aluminum alloy, but strengthened with carbon fibres. It was aimed more at cold climates."

"Steel would give you frostbite at negative temperatures. Aluminum is a good substitute. I imagine that frostbite would cause a lot of painful complications in the port."

"The nerves wouldn't be able to send the proper signals, either."

"So the nerves for movement alone are attached to the port, and then the joint simply acts as an electrical circuit. It wouldn't need any external power source."

"That's right. A battery of some sort would deplete itself far too fast, and would make it less amenable to conscious movement."

"Makes sense. Some prosthetics I've seen recently run with an external power source and a sort of joystick control, and they're starting to look into myoeletric prosthetics, using a few of the nerve impulses like yours do. They've tried attaching them to bones, too. But this is the first I've seen that entirely self-contained and works directly with the nerves. This is years ahead of anything we have around here. I imagine the installation was painful."

"Brutal. Sedation would have made it too easy to connect the wrong nerves."

"And even then, it would still be simple to make a mistake and connect a nerve for the elbow instead of one for the wrist. The one doing the surgery would have to be a professional."

"She is. She and her granddaughter run a sort of automail shop. She does it for a living; I was actually one of her easier customers."

He stashed that information away, knowing Grissom would probably want to know.

"And the recovery and adaptation time? I imagine it was at least a year."

"Well, it's supposed to be an average of three. It takes long enough just for the body to stop trying to reject the port. I got it in one year, but that involved a lot of effort and stubbornness."

"Age would also be a factor in that. Older people would have a harder time recovering."

The boy eyed him for a moment, and Doc knew he'd caught on. But Ed remained casual.

"Well, it's not really unheard-of. But the likelihood of success decreases the longer you wait after losing your limb. I haven't heard of anyone waiting longer than a year or two before trying, and even then it's likely to be rejected."

Doc felt a little disappointed at that, but he had guessed that would be the case.

"Besides which, I don't know if there are any automail mechanics around here. No one else seems to know what it is." The teenager gave him a small smile. "But I can see why you'd be interested, having to wear something like this all the time." He poked one of Doc's prosthetic legs as it lay on the table.

Doc picked up Ed's leg, which had also been lying on the table. "I admit, something like this would make my job a lot easier. Being on my fake feet all day can give an old man back problems."

Ed chuckled—and Doc was struck again with how much he truly _liked_ this kid. After all, most other people would be too uncomfortable with his supposed disability to understand any of his morbid humour. But here was a teenager with two missing limbs of his own, who was intelligent enough to have a proper conversation and had the same sense of humour.

Now why couldn't his own kids have been this much fun?

"I know a girl with two automail legs. She's actually faster than me on them."

"But she's probably a lot younger than I am. I think the recovery alone would take me into retirement. Then what use would it do me? I'd be an old man sitting on a couch watching bad crime shows on TV, wondering if it's worth the effort to make the trip to the fridge on my fancy new legs that work better than I do."

The deep-throated laughter that resulted from that comment made him smile widely.

"So what's this made of, anyway?" Ed asked after he finished chuckling. He hefted Doc's prosthetic, weighing it in his hand.

"A plastic polymer. They have a metal rod inside to give it more stability and movement. It's a rather simple model, even though it's transfemoral."

"Above the knee," Ed nodded. "I'm surprised they haven't come up with a more manoeuvrable model." He bent the prosthetic's knee a few times, studying the movement.

Doc shrugged. "It's a cheaper one. Studying dead people doesn't really pay well enough to keep me on my feet."

Ed snorted, twisting the prosthetic's ankle with a speculative look on his face.

"I'm surprised your own limbs don't use some polymers, even if just on the cover plates or some of the hydraulics." Doc squinted as he peered into the gap in the leg that Ed had opened up for him. "Actually, it's surprising that there aren't any advanced robotics in here to help with the natural movement. When you're wearing it, I can hardly tell it's false. It's quite the feat of engineering. The one who designed it must have been very intelligent."

Ed shrugged. "Plastics aren't very common where I come from. And it wouldn't be as durable. With this leg, I can do just as much as—if not more than—if it were real." Then he levelled a wide smile at Doc. "And I'll tell Winry that you said that whenever I get home."

"Winry? Care to tell me about her? Just for curiosity's sake, of course!" he reassured as Ed shot him an oddly suspicious look.

"Just a childhood friend, really," the blonde said. "We grew up together, and when I lost my limbs she offered to personally make my automail. Actually..." Ed rubbed the back of his head and grimaced in remembered pain, "...she kind of insisted. She probably would have broken my skull if I'd tried going to anyone else."

Doc chuckled. "So she's your age? I'm impressed. But then again, if your own intelligence is anything to go by..."

The teen's eyes widened and he held up a hand. "I couldn't even dream of putting something like this together! No way! Even when I just touch it, Winry wants to kill me, because she just _knows _I'm gonna break it!"

Doc's chuckle turned into laughter. "I'm surprised you haven't tried to gain an understanding of how it works when you've been wearing it so long."

Ed's eye twitched. "I just said, WinryR would kill me. She knows if I've tampered with it in any way. Besides—" here he held both hands out to the side, balancing on his one good leg in a way that almost made Doc jealous, "I'm an alch—scientist. I don't deal in mechanics. As long as it works, I don't care. All I have to do is maintenance, really."

Doc pretended he hadn't noticed the slip, but he would most certainly be letting Grissom know about it.

It was strange; he didn't really feel like he was betraying Ed's trust in telling his superior and friend about what the teenager said to him. After all, Ed already knew he was part of a murder investigation, and even from just knowing him for an hour, Doc could already tell that the blonde was frightfully intelligent. He would have already guessed that Doc would have to tell some of the information to Grissom regardless of how he felt about it. And if Ed had had a major problem with it, he could have simply refused to talk to the older man.

There was silence for a few minutes as each of them fiddled with the other's leg. (_And doesn't that sound odd_? Doc thought.) Suddenly, Ed _hmm_ed.

"You know, I think I could do something to make your leg a little easier to use. Reinforcements at certain points and bearings at others..." His words degraded into near-silent mutters as he rubbed his chin, holding the leg up in front of his face.

Doc raised an eyebrow. "I thought you said you weren't into mechanics."

Ed looked at him. "I said I'm not an expert. But even I pick up some things after five years of wearing two fake limbs."

"Fair enough," Doc conceded. "What did you have in mind?"

The teen's eyes narrowed as he perused the leg again. "Is the other leg just like this one?"

"Exactly. Well, it's about three months older, but it's the same model and design."

Ed nodded sharply. "Yeah, I can do something about it. But I'll need someplace to work, and some supplies."

"Such as?"

"Scrap metal, really. Maybe a few spare bits of plastic. And some oil to get it moving properly."

"I can probably scrounge up some things. But I can't really have you messing with my legs while I have to work. And I can't really afford to replace them if they're damaged." But the thought had been planted and was taking hold; maybe moving would be a little bit easier if Ed actually had an idea for improving his prosthetics. He tried not to be too eager, though.

Ed gave him an entirely offended look. "I'm not going to ruin them! They're simple enough that I wouldn't be _able _to mess them up even if I tried!"

Doc snorted.

There was a pause.

"Hey, old man, do you have any spare legs anywhere?"

Doc ignored the 'old man' bit, too used to it from his own children. "Yeah, at home. They're older and harder to use, but they still fit."

Ed nodded sharply. "Do you think there'd be any way I could just take these back to Catherine's with me and work on them there?" Seeing the old coroner's sceptical look, the teen elaborated. "I work best if I don't have any distractions and a place I can sort of spread out in. And I don't really like to have people watching me."

He tried not to think about how suspicious that sounded. This was a sixteen year old kid. He wouldn't have ulterior motives.

Besides, what could he do with two lower-level prosthetic legs, when he already had two high-tech limbs himself?

Doc glanced at the clock, hesitating.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, I'll pay for a new one if I do something to them. I'm not going to steal your legs out from under you, either."

That got a smile out of him, and he rubbed his chin. "Well, I suppose there isn't any problem with it that I can see. I have insurance on them, anyway. But," he held up a hand as Ed started to look speculatively at the leg again, "we'll have to wait a few days, I think. I need to find you some materials, and tools. What do you need?"

Ed smiled mysteriously. "The only tools I need are my hands." And he wiggled the fingers of his right hand.

Doc wondered if there was some kind of toolkit installed in the arm, but the mischievous smile on Ed's face said that the teen wouldn't answer him even if he asked. "Any specific metals you're looking for?"

"Steel, maybe. And aluminum, if you have it. And... if there's any way you could find some graphite, that would help with the movement."

"Sounds good to me."

Ed's smile turned genuinely pleased, and he held out his hand. Doc returned the grin with a small smile of his own and shook the hand.

And that was when Sara entered the room.

"Doc, Warrick's been looking for you—" and then she stopped, the strangest look of consternation on her face. Doc took a moment to picture the scene from her point of view: the two of them, one an old, stout man and one a bright-eyed, bright-haired teenager, both standing on one leg, leaning against opposite sides of the table, with two dynamically different prosthetic legs in their left hands and their right hands extended in a handshake.

The image that produced made him chuckle, and he let go of Ed's hand. From the look in the teen's eye and his sideways smile, he saw the humour as well.

"Are you selling each other your legs or something?" Sara asked in a bewildered tone of voice.

Both of them chuckled as they exchanged limbs and sat down, leaving Sara to look between the two of them in bafflement.

* * *

"Hey, Grissom?"

The lead CSI looked up from the paper he was perusing. He'd left Ed and Doc Robbins alone once they'd started talking about prosthetics; he knew that they were his old friend's secret passion, and that they would likely end up talking for a good long while. And besides, he had work to do.

Greg was standing in the doorway, his lips pressed together and his eyebrow quirked in that entirely Greg-like way. "What is it?"

"I looked into that fabric you gave me. When you asked if it could be modified by light?"

Grissom nodded, motioning the younger man to sit in the chair in front of his desk. Greg did so eagerly, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees.

"Well, I didn't find anything special about the dye, really. None of the radiation I tried worked. Visible light, even blue, didn't do anything, and UV rays, X-rays, and everything else just left it as it was."

Grissom's mind crumpled that theory up like an old letter and tossed it into his mental trash bin. Ah, well. It had been one of his more 'out-there' ideas; it would have been a stretch if it had actually turned up anything.

"But I found something cool."

The older man blinked. "'Something cool' as in...?" he prompted. Greg would just wait for him to guess if he didn't give him a little push.

The Trace expert pouted slightly, but elaborated. "Well, when the light tests didn't turn up anything, I tried a few chemical ones." Grissom nodded. That was a logical next step. "Most of them didn't turn up anything. The fabric's regular cotton, by the way, and the dye turned out to be cochineal."

Grissom's eyebrows came together. "Cochineal? I didn't know there were any manufacturers that still used that. And doesn't it hold better to wool than to cotton?"

Greg smiled a proud little smile. "That's what I thought. So I took a closer look at the fabric; I thought that maybe it had woollen fibres woven into it to make it warmer or something. And that's when I found something cool."

Grissom waved his hand to get the younger man to elaborate again. Greg pouted. Again.

Sometimes he wondered how someone so obviously playful and optimistic had ended up as a forensic DNA specialist. He loved the kid, but he never would have pegged him for this job.

"The cotton is perfect. And I don't mean as in a very, very well made fabric. I mean as in, there are _no imperfections_ in it."

"No imperfections?" Grissom repeated, frowning.

Greg nodded like an excited puppy. "Yeah. You know how most fabrics, especially plant-based ones, have microscopic flaws and impurities in the fibres? It's said to be impossible to get one hundred percent perfect fabric, no matter how many times you card the base material or how sanitary your workspace is or even if it's made by the world's best machines. There's always something in it that makes it microscopically imperfect."

"But you didn't find _anything_ in the fabric I gave you?"

"Nope," Greg said, his eyes sparkling from the discovery. "It's as if someone took pure cotton, ground it down to the atomic level, and put it back together with all of the impurities tossed aside. Actually, that's theoretically the only way you could make a perfect material like that."

"And Ed's coat is perfect."

Greg shrugged. "Well, it was a bit dirty, but that's to be expected. There's no way to keep anything perfectly clean. But in the fabric itself, yeah, it's perfect." Then his smile widened. "And I found something else interesting. After I found that out about the cotton, I wondered if it was true about the dye, as well. And guess what?"

He decided to throw the kid a bone. "It was pure as well?"

"Got it in one!" Greg crowed. Grissom didn't know why he was so happy about something so unexplainable. "Cochineal comes from insects. That makes it even harder to purify it. But again, it's absolutely without flaw."

Grissom blinked and rubbed his eyes. He really didn't want to deal with scientific impossibilities right now.

But Greg was still talking.

"I don't even know _how_ you'd get a perfectly pure dye. Filtering it wouldn't be enough. I suppose you could try and build it with synthetic components, but everything was natural—"

He tuned out the younger man's techno-babble in favour of the thought that had just occurred to him.

_Components. Ed mentioned components. And how they're simple enough to modify. What if he..._

"Hey, Greg?" he said, cutting the man off.

"Yeah?"

"You said it might have been possible to build it from its components. Would there be any way to do that with natural ingredients?"

Greg blinked. "Well, theoretically, I suppose—"

"And is there any black dye that is close in composition to cochineal?"

Greg ran a hand through his hair, messing it up in the way he always said helped him think better. "Well, in theory, most dyes—especially natural ones—have a lot of the same components. A lot of them are acids. Generally, they're just oxygen and hydrogen, with some nitrogen. Plant-based dyes would be closest together, but insect dyes wouldn't be much different. They—"

"Thanks, Greg," Grissom cut in. He ignored the slightly wounded look on the younger man's face at being interrupted; he'd get over it quickly enough. "You gave me an idea."

"Ah. Well. You're welcome..." Greg was looking rather confused, but he recognized a dismissal when he heard one. He stood slowly, hesitating slightly. "Was there anything else you wanted me to check?"

Grissom waved a hand, already starting to jot down what he was thinking. "I'll let you know if anything comes up." He glanced up at the man and gave him a small smile. "Thanks for everything you found. It will be extremely helpful."

Greg smiled, and then paused. "Sara said to tell you that Ed and the Doc were making bargains over their prosthetic legs in the break room earlier. She wanted to know if you had approved it."

Grissom blinked. _What on earth...?_ "Well, I suppose they can do whatever they want with their own body parts. Who am I to intervene?"

Greg only laughed and closed the door.

He rubbed his head and decided that he would go and find out what exactly Ed had been doing while under Doc's supervision as soon as he finished puzzling out his newest idea.

Turning back to the page he'd already been scribbling on, he pondered, tuning out the everyday noises of the crime lab. If someone needed him, they knew they'd have to get his attention first.

So dyes were, essentially, composed of mostly the same elements. What proportions those elements were in depended on the colour and the origin of the dye.

The only way to make one hundred percent pure dye would, theoretically, be to break it down into its base elements and build it up from there, expunging all impurities as you went.

The only way to _change_ a dye colour that was resistant to both radiation and chemical changes and was never intended to change colour—especially a naturally-occurring dye such as cochineal—without dying it another colour entirely would be to break it down into its base elements and build it up from there, slightly changed from its previous state.

So the only way to change the colour of a dye that was _already one hundred percent perfect..._

Would be to break it down into its base elements and build it up from there.

He followed that line of thought where it logically took him next. If that was the only way to do what Ed had done...

Then that was what Ed had done.

He had literally _broken the dye down to an atomic level_ and rebuilt it differently than before. Never mind that such a feat would be impossible without at _least_ high-level chemistry equipment, or that a sixteen year old should _not _be capable of such a thing even with the right equipment, no matter how prodigious his intelligence.

But Ed had done it.

Grissom briefly entertained the thought that Ed was just leading him on entirely and had more than one coat in different colours, or—as unlikely as it was—the nurse had found him a red coat identical to the red one he had previously worn, and had disposed of his black one for some reason...

But his gut—which he always trusted, despite what he always said to his CSIs about following the facts and evidence only—was telling him that Ed really _did_ do something atomic to his coat. Even though it was entirely impossible in Grissom's view.

Because the impossible was simply a new way of looking at things that you hadn't tried yet.

So.

If he went with the assumption that Ed had done such a theoretically impossible thing with the dye of his coat, it stood to reason that he had also somehow done something with the _fabric_ of the coat, as well. In fact, Greg had already said that the same stood true for the cotton; the only way to get it so pure was to build it from scratch.

So what did that say about Ed?

Grissom sighed deeply.

It said that he really had to get a sample of some of Ed's other clothes to see if they matched. And maybe...

Maybe a tiny fragment of his automail arm's steel. Because if Ed had the capability to somehow atomically modifying dye and fabric, it would stand to reason that he could also modify metals in such a way that wouldn't even have to change the actual atomic structure.

Such as making a blade out of his automail arm.

He sighed again, even deeper this time.

He really, _really_ needed to sit Ed down and get some concrete answers out of him.

Preferably soon.

Before he ended up selling his automail arm to Doc or something.

On that note, Grissom stood up. He should probably find out what all that leg stuff was about.

* * *

**Alright, people.**

**This is the fruits of the first three days of Camp NaNoWriMo. I'm starting to sort of get into the swing of things with this one, but it's a little harder because this story actually takes **_**research**_**, and an abominable amount of it, too. **

**I will repeat what I said on my LiveJournal yesterday:**

**I am sorry to say that, during the month of August itself, I WILL NOT be updating anymore on MTJAM. This is because NaNoWriMo is a challenge for quantity of words over quality; I will be writing very fast with less consideration for some of the finer nuances that I like to add. BUT. That doesn't mean I want my update quality to suffer. I will likely take a good portion of September, once NaNo is over, to seriously edit what I've written. I really, really don't want you guys to think that the quality will go down because of this. I'm still a total perfectionist. Besides, you guys are used to waiting by now... (I'm such a horrible person.)**

**It also means that, once I DO start updating, I will space out the chapters. There won't be a giant influx of chapters come late September. I will likely space them out by one or two weeks, because I don't want to run out of what I've written long before I get more words on a page. Then the updates will be much steadier and far less sporadic. It will probably also help to decrease the chance of RIDICULOUSLY long gaps between updates.**

**If you're at all interested in keeping track of how many words I've added to MTJAM, you can go to my profile on the Camp NaNoWriMo site. Also, any updates to do with the progress of ANY of my fanfiction will now be posted on my LiveJournal. (The link for both of these is on my profile.)**

**Well, now it is time for me to return to writing. I hope to talk to you all again in September. Wish me luck on finishing this challenge!**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-AkitaFallow**


	16. Explaining Equivalent Exchange

**Unfortunately, it seems that I did not get nearly as many words as I would have liked in August, due to a combination of severe wrist problems, family reunions, work, and moving back to school. But here is part of the fruits of my labour, and I hope you enjoy it, because it's earlier than I would have planned. :)**

**Warnings:**** A bit of language here and there, teenage rebelliousness, and some angst.**

* * *

Ed was, for the first time in his life, trying to read a book as slowly as possible.

He could feel the man's eyes boring into the side of his head, but he absolutely _refused_ to acknowledge them, to turn his head, to even flick his eyes in the man's direction. Because that would be like admitting _defeat_. And Ed _would not lose._

Instead, he tried to lose himself in the tense atmosphere as Frodo entered Shelob's lair after Gollum.

As he turned another page, he scratched at the place where his automail port met his leg. It was still itching after he and Doc Robbins had reattached it. It was the first time that a non-automail engineer had actually been able to help him properly with the reinstallation. Maybe it was the fact that Robbins was a medical professional of a different variety than a doctor, or that he was naturally a very precise person. Either way, it had only taken one try to get the leg positioned properly and latched into the port. Doc had been significantly alarmed at the amount of pain that Ed seemed to be in when the nerves activated, but Ed had been quick to reassure him through gritted teeth that this was normal, and actually was far less painful than it would have been had he not held it properly as it was pushed on.

Ed still winced at the memory of the first two times Dr. Speighn had tried to help him reattach his arm. For a certified doctor, he was certainly_ not _cut out to be an automail technician.

It was times like these that he missed Winry and Pinako with a fiery passion.

And then the thought of the homemade sandwich he'd eaten on Sara's order churn in his stomach. He couldn't help but wish it was Pinako's stew instead of that strange meat concoction the woman had _insisted_ was what everyone his age was eating. He didn't know what 'balowny' was, but he most certainly hadn't liked it much.

He sighed inaudibly. When he got in moods like this (which seemed to be getting more and more common as he remained here in Las Vegas and was missing Al and had far too much time alone with his thoughts at night), he always tried to simply think about it as another long trip he and Al were taking. Even if Al wasn't here. Even if he couldn't just return to Risembool whenever he got homesick (which he never admitted to Al that he did, but he _did_). Even if he couldn't call the Rockbells when his automail was malfunctioning or when he just really, _really_ wanted to hear Winry's voice. Even if no one here knew about alchemy, and he couldn't actually talk to anyone about anything to do with home or his profession or... anything, really.

And then his mood would only get worse. Like it was now. Because no matter how he looked at it, this was _nothing_ like any of his long journeys. And that just made it all the more bewildering and depressing all at once.

And that was why he was trying to lose himself in the enormous battle at Minas Tirith. But it wasn't working.

Because Grissom was _still staring at him_.

The really annoying part was, Ed knew _exactly_ why the older man was doing it. Actually, he'd thought that it would have happened yesterday, but given all the running around Grissom had been doing, he would have been lucky to get a single word in.

But now...

Now, Grissom had a lot of silence to fill and a lot of questions to fill it with.

(If Ed had been versed in the history of the world, he probably would have made a reference to the Inquisition. But, being as there really was no Amestrian equivalent, the opportunity was lost.)

And so, for the first time in his life, Ed was trying to read a book as slowly as possible.

The problem with this plan was that, as Al so often pointed out, Ed did not have enough patience or a slow enough temper to deal with being endlessly stared at like he was a fine species of bug by an entomologist who really, really wanted to discover his secrets, as though the very air around him would start leaking words if he stared hard enough or long enough.

And the other problem with this plan was that, unlike Ed, Grissom seemed to be possessed of an enormous (if not _bottomless_) amount of patience. It was probably why he was as good at his job as he so often seemed.

Just as Ed's hand slowly turned the page at the end of the chapter, he felt the stare's intensity increase, if that were even possible to sense. And he'd had enough.

"What do you _want?_" he demanded, with a great deal more bite than he probably should have, as he slammed the book onto his lap—though he made sure not to bend any pages. He had enough presence of mind not to go desecrating a book; particularly one of _Catherine's _book.

Grissom simply raised his eyebrow, as if the outburst were entirely random and not caused by _his damn staring._ "'I want it said of me by those who knew me best, that I always plucked a thistle and planted a flower where I thought a flower would grow.'"

Ed blinked in utter bewilderment at the apparent non sequitur. "What the _hell_?"

An annoyingly satisfied little smile grew on his face. "Abraham Lincoln."

"_What?_" Had the man gone entirely senile in the short-but-seemingly-much-longer time they had been sitting in his office, staring or purposely snail-reading?

Grissom's eyebrow went higher. "It was a quote. Abraham Lincoln, sixteenth president of the United States?"

When Ed simply continued to stare at him in incredulity, he sighed.

"Well, Sara did say you said you didn't go to high school..."

Ed's eye twitched. "And what exactly does my not going to high school have anything to do with a quote about thistles and flowers and what-have-you?"

Grissom shrugged in an entirely too casual way. "I'm just surprised you know so much about science, and nothing about Abraham Lincoln, of all people."

The teen tried not to groan. He'd already known that Doc Robbins was going to tell Grissom about what they'd talked about; after all, they _were_ in the middle of murder investigation, and Ed was still their main suspect, even if he had been mostly cleared. No, if he'd had a problem with _that_, he wouldn't have bothered talking to the man, regardless of how well they'd hit it off.

What bothered him was that he had _no idea_ when he had managed to find the time between their conversation in the break room and the current moment to actually tell Grissom anything.

But instead of showing any of that on his face, he merely shrugged. "I had a very specialized education."

The man-who-wouldn't-stop-prying cocked his head to one side. "Really? Who taught you? I was under the impression that your father wasn't around."

Ed actually appreciated the fact that Grissom hadn't said '_...that your mother was dead_,' because that would have felt entirely too personal. He really shouldn't have been surprised, though; Grissom had so far struck him as almost too considerate for his job. He was always the tactful one, while Brass seemed to be the 'barge-in-and-demand-some-answers' kind.

Grissom was the kind of guy who liked to confuse people with random quotes before asking a disarming question to get you to relax. And as much as Ed appreciated it—he had had experiences with _far_ too many demanding Brass-like people for his peace of mind over the years—he could recognize the tactic for what it was, and the fact that it was much more dangerous. It actually tended to get _answers_ from people.

He didn't want to think that he _disliked_ the man, really; everything he'd seen of Grissom seemed to be a man after Ed's own heart, if not his temperament. He really did like the lead CSI. But _not_ when he was asking probing questions that really didn't need to be answered because they didn't really have any bearing on the case. Grissom was probably just trying to satisfy his own curiosity.

Ed didn't bother trying to ignore the hypocrisy in getting angry at that, because he himself did _far_ too many things that only satisfied _his_ curiosity.

"None of your business," he said moodily and reopened the book in his lap. Then, because his mouth usually ran before his brain anyway, he muttered half heartedly, "It's not like I would have listened to that bastard if he'd showed up to try and teach us anyway."

"I heard that your relationship with him is fairly non-existent. He left when you were younger?" When Ed didn't answer, Grissom continued gently, "Do you know what it was that killed your mother?"

And because he _hated_ that topic with a burning passion, because it was the thing that started all the problems, that sent his and Al's lives so far downhill that they were _still_, all these years later, slogging their way back up again, he said shortly, "A disease. We never knew what it was." And then, before Grissom could say anything about being sorry, or understanding, or some other platitude—though Ed's mind told him that the older man wasn't likely to say anything of the sort—he diverted the conversation. "And Al and I were self-taught, for the most part."

Grissom's eyebrows rose. "Self-taught? At such a young age?"

Ed shrugged, eyes not leaving his book, but not really reading it. "We like to read."

"I can see that." Ed could hear the quirky humour in the man's voice, and he snorted slightly.

"Well, it only got worse when Teacher took over."

"Teacher?"

He nodded. "Yeah. She took Al and me on as apprentices when we were eight and nine, respectively."

"What did she teach you?"

"Everything. And she believed in the whole negative reinforcement thing." And he shuddered in remembered pain. Grissom caught the movement.

"Negative reinforcement. So she punished you if you didn't do well enough?"

Ed's lip twitched slightly. "She punished us if we made _stupid mistakes._"

"What kind of mistakes?"

"Stupid ones," he hedged.

"Did those stupid mistakes involve the kind of things you can do wrong simply by being a child?"

Ed could already sense where this was going, and he really didn't like it. Ed narrowed his eyes. "No, they were mistakes you can make by being an idiot. Age had nothing to do with it."

Grissom looked closely at him, a strange look in his eyes. "I've worked with a lot of people over the years, Ed. A lot of them justify somewhat... harsher treatment by saying they'd acted worse than others, that what they did was stupid—"

And he was on his feet in a second, _The Return of the King_ falling to the floor with an unheard plop, his fists clenched and his teeth grinding.

"Don't you _dare _start thinking that! Teacher didn't _abuse_ us! She didn't _mistreat_ us! She cared about us more than any other damn person we'd run into for years, and she made sure we knew it! She made sure that we knew she cared enough to _make sure we didn't make the stupidest mistakes_!" He couldn't seem to stop the words. Because the very _idea_ that his teacher would do such a thing sent his mind instantly into argument. Because despite how much she scared him, despite how much he'd sometimes _hated_ the lessons she'd taught them, she would never, _ever_ do such a thing as Grissom was suggesting!

"She cared enough that she didn't want us to repeat the same damn mistakes she'd made herself! And damnit... _damnit,_ it wasn't even enough! You think what she did was abuse, but it wasn't, because it wasn't _enough_! We still went and made the _same mistake_!" His breathing was coming hard and fast now, and he just couldn't seem to catch his breath. But the words kept coming, repeating themselves nearly inarticulately in his sudden and blinding rage. Rage at Grissom. Rage at the ludicrous accusation. But most of all, the unceasing rage he always felt at himself.

"Maybe if she'd done _more_, maybe everything wouldn't have gone to _shit_, but she tried, damnit she tried! And we just _wouldn't listen_ and we went and did whatever we wanted without even _thinking_ and it was never her _fault_ because we would have done it anyway because we just... _wouldn't... LISTEN!_" He swore violently and kicked the chair he'd been sitting in. With a sharp _CRACK!_ the leg splintered and the chair collapsed, falling forward into the small shelf beside it. A few of the jars on the shelf wobbled precariously, but only one fell over, rolling swiftly to the edge and over it.

The resulting crash was ear-splitting, but the silence that fell immediately afterwards was even worse.

The oppressive, echoing quiet seemed like a dash of cold water. His breathing gradually slowed, and his fists loosened their impossibly tight grip around his gloves. Closing his eyes, he breathed deeply, letting the anger leave through his mouth in a way that Al had taught him a few years ago when people kept making short jokes and he couldn't take it anymore.

Minutes passed.

And Grissom said nothing.

Ed didn't really want to look up. He didn't want to see that speculative look on the man's face that seemed to be ever-present when Ed was involved. He didn't want to see the strange horror-and-pity hybrid that everyone always had whenever he lost his temper about something like this. But most of all, he didn't want to see the calm dismissal of his outburst that he had seen far too often on adults' faces in the past few years, telling him that his concerns really aren't valid because he's just a child, that it was simply a temper tantrum and nothing more.

And still, the silence reigned supreme.

It was almost painful, that silence. Because he didn't want to know what Grissom was thinking—because it might change something and he didn't know exactly how the man would react anyway and he was just starting to get an understanding of him and he didn't want that to change already... But he didn't want to _not look_ and never know, and sit in silence for so long that it suddenly made any understanding impossible anyway and he was _over thinking this_ and _why couldn't he just look up and take it like a man—_

"So does that mistake have something to do with the scar Catherine saw last night?"

And just like that, his thoughts stopped. Just... stopped.

"What?" His eyes flew open and he met Grissom's eyes and saw—

Calm, honest concern.

And just like that, Ed respected this man more than he had respected any other he had met in five years.

Because there was no pity in that expression. No condescension or dismissal. It was the way one looked at a friend. Not a child, not someone who bothered them, not a puzzle to be solved.

An equal.

His left hand came up to his face in a second and he rubbed his eyes, tilting his head towards the ceiling. He told himself that the itching behind his eyes was just the beginnings of a headache, nothing more.

"No," he finally sighed, when he trusted his voice to come out steady like it was supposed to. "I was protecting Al."

"From what?" It was the first time some form of stress had entered Grissom's voice in the days that Ed had known him.

Catherine's voice echoed in his head.

_-"What happened to you?"-_

"I..." And his voice failed him. What was he supposed to say? That they had been trying to turn Al into a Philosopher's Stone and had succeeded because they'd sent him through the Gate but he'd fought his way back only to die at the hands of his homunculus half-brother via an _arm through his chest_?

He already knew he couldn't say any of that.

But he knew what he _could _say.

"Mr. Grissom," he started, then stopped, and rubbed his face again. "Mr. Grissom, you already know that a lot of things in my life have been... different. I'm not a normal teenager. Neither is my brother. We haven't lived normal lives. I told you the very first day that I've been avoiding someone who wants to kill me, once they get what they want. I'm not going to tell you why, because it's not important, no matter how many times you give me that over-the-glasses look that says you really need to know." Grissom raised an eyebrow as he slowly pushed his glasses higher so he would look through them instead of over them. "It's not important, because it's impossible for them to find me here anyway. But something like that obviously causes a lot of problems." Grissom's snort was more of the 'you-can-say-that-again' sort, rather than the 'I-can't-believe-you-said-that' kind. "And my brother is _always with me_."

The comprehension dawning on Grissom's face was visible. Ed was honestly surprised the man hadn't made the connection himself.

"Danger followed me everywhere at home. And Al did the same. I dragged him across the country with me, straight into every problem I had." He snorted in self-derision. "And the saddest part is, being in the line of fire was _safer_ for him than anywhere else, because I could actually protect him then. If he was alone somewhere, it would have been so _ridiculously simple_ for them to grab him without me there to stop them." He took a deep breath, and clenched his fists. "That's why I have to find him. As soon as possible. Because I don't know what's happening to him."

There was silence for a moment, before Grissom sighed.

"Catherine said you couldn't tell her anything about him. What he looks like, where he might be...?"

Ed rubbed his forehead, wishing he had a chair to sit on still. "It's just... I have no idea how I got here, or even where _here_ is in comparison to home, but I just have a feeling that he's somewhere nearby. And..." He sighed. "I have theories, but I can't confirm them, and even if I could I still wouldn't be sure. There's a chance he might be... completely different. And I just can't _know_ so I can't _say _anything until I'm sure."

"And when do you think you'll be sure?"

"When I find him," he replied immediately. "It's the only way to ever be sure."

Grissom gave him a tiny smile. "Very true." Then he pulled his glasses off and rubbed his own eyes. "Do you know anything that might help us help you? Anything about him that wouldn't have really changed, despite your theories?"

Ed only took a moment to think. "He loves cats. He'll collect them like some people collect coins, especially if they're strays. He kind of sounds like a girl sometimes, but that's probably just his age. He trusts people way too easily, and he has the disturbing habit of befriending serial killers." Seeing Grissom's suddenly alarmed look, he quickly elaborated. "They're usually the morbidly misunderstood kind that like to attack people personally and can usually be talked out of being totally psychotic. Because that's what Al does. He _talks_ instead of fights, even though he's the best damn fighter I've ever seen. We'll be in the middle of almost getting killed and he'll start asking the person trying to kill us if they really want to do it, why they would want to do it, how the fact that their mother deprived them of meat when they were six made them a misunderstood child and gave them the insane urge to cut people up whenever they saw them. It's what Al does."

He could have laughed at the look of consternation on Grissom's face, but he didn't because he wanted the man to realize that no, he wasn't kidding, no matter how it sounded.

Finally, he spoke.

"_Serial killers_?" It seemed to be the most articulate thing he could come up with.

"Serial killers," Ed confirmed. "And basically everyone else he runs into, but it usually ends up being the murderous type."

Grissom appeared to be speechless. Ed finally smiled, because he just couldn't help it.

"People trust him on impulse. I think it's because he trusts them until they try to kill him, and even then forgives them if they say they're sorry."

Finally, the CSI blinked. "He sounds like the worst possible person to be hanging around in Vegas."

Ed pressed his lips together, most of his humour evaporating because that was _exactly_ what he was thinking. "That's why I need to find him as soon as possible."

Grissom nodded, a determined look coming into his eyes. "We'll find him, Ed."

And he knew that Grissom really _would_ do his best to find Al. Even though he had only known the man for a few days, he was already coming to realize that, despite his cool, academic mentality, Grissom cared a great deal about people. If there was some way he could help the short-tempered, somewhat lost teenager he'd found in a bush who was consistently fielding his questions and causing him no end of trouble, then he would. It seemed to be what Grissom did best.

But that wasn't how Ed operated.

"Equivalent Exchange."

Grissom blinked at him and cocked his head to one side quizzically. Ed couldn't help but think that he resembled a curious dog in that moment.

"Equivalent Exchange. What do you want in return?"

"I'm not helping you in an effort to get something back from you, Ed," the man said disapprovingly. "I'm helping you because it's part of my job."

He shrugged. "And I'm accepting your help and paying you back because it's part of _my_ job."

"Adapting science terms to real-life situations is part of your job?" Grissom repeated with a raised eyebrow and a small smile.

Ed bristled, and stepped forward to place his hands on Grissom's desk. "_Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. That is the First Law of Equivalent Exchange._" He pressed his lips together. "It's not a science term, Mr. Grissom. It's a law. It's a way of living. Everyone wants something in return for what they do, and it's only right that they get it. What applies in science just as easily applies in politics and sociology and human behaviour."

"So you believe in karma?"

Ed blinked. "Whatta-whatta?"

"Karma," Grissom repeated. "The belief that all deeds, be they good or bad, are returned to you in time. The degree it is increased by on the return depends on who you're asking."

Ed snorted. "Sounds like some kind of religious thing to me."

Grissom raised his eyebrows curiously. "You don't believe in religion?"

He flapped a hand. "No. I'm an atheist. I've seen what religions can do to people."

"Religious beliefs give a lot of people hope."

"Well, I can live just fine believing in the things I can see. They're more reliable than a God anyway."

Grissom smiled thinly and didn't say anything to that. "This concept of Equivalent Exchange sounds a lot like the physics conservation laws, too."

Ed shook his head emphatically. "I don't deal with physics."

Grissom blinked. "Why not? I was under the impression you were a scientist."

"Yes, but I deal with... chemistry and biology. Physics isn't part of it."

He was intensely glad he'd had even a short period of time on what he was now convinced was still the 'Other Side' of the Gate, because otherwise he wouldn't have any idea what physics was to begin with.

"That seems like an odd specialization." But after noting that point, he said no more on the subject, for which Ed was grateful. "So what sort of 'equivalent exchange' did you have in mind?"

Ed rubbed his chin for a moment, absently wondering if he should grow a beard so he could stroke it like those evil geniuses he'd read about in books when he was three. "Well, you're helping me. I was thinking that I could help you."

Grissom blinked, then immediately shook his head. "No, Ed. If you're thinking of helping us figure out these cases, I can't let you."

"And why not?"

"Because it's called 'compromising the evidence'. Even if we didn't put you out in the field—and we're most certainly not going to do that," Ed pouted slightly, because he really didn't want to be stuck inside anymore, "we can't have you working with any of the evidence in the cases. You're still a suspect, even if we've ruled you out as the murderer. You could be an accomplice or even bait."

He took offense to that.

"I take offense to that! Hasn't the fact that I've been _attacked_ by the bastard proved anything? Even if I _was_ working for him, I wouldn't be doing it anymore after he tried to poison me!" He ran an agitated hand through his bangs, because he _hated _the feeling of not being trusted, and there was really nothing he could do to _make_ them trust him. "Besides which, I'm not about to say my helping you is payment for you helping me, and then go and sabotage it for my own ends! That goes against every principle of Equivalent Exchange!"

For a moment, Grissom just sat looking at him contemplatively over his glasses, before finally sighing. "I want to trust your word, Ed. I really do. But it's my job to question things, and to keep the integrity of the case." Ed could see what looked like honest regret in his eyes. "I'll help you find your brother without having to get something in return. You don't have to try and make up for it."

Ed threw his hands in the air. "You're not getting it! Equivalent Exchange isn't about helping you because I _want_ to, even though I do. It's about the natural way of things; you can't get something without giving something in return! It's how everything works." He ground his teeth, because Grissom just didn't understand it. "Most people work to make money, and are paid based on how much they worked. That's Equivalent Exchange. Your body recycles elements and changes them into new compounds to gain energy. That's Equivalent Exchange. People give others gifts in response to goodwill, or to express friendship. Even _that's_ Equivalent Exchange. I said that it's a law. Not a suggestion. It's like gravity; something that _can't be avoided._ It's the way the world works!"

Grissom blinked slowly, before shuffling a few papers on his desk into a neater pile, placing his elbows on the desk, clasping his hands, and putting his chin atop them. "That's a very unique theory you've developed."

Ed's eye twitched. "It's not a theory. It's a law. I'm not the one who developed it; I _learned_ it. And it hasn't failed me yet."

Grissom cocked his head to one side. "So you believe that everything follows the principle of Equivalent Exchange."

"Everything."

"What about life? Love? Human emotions?" Ed could tell that the man wasn't trying to be argumentative; he was honestly curious. And it made him smile, because it had been awhile since he'd had a good, academic debate.

"_All is one, one is all_." He elaborated when Grissom raised an eyebrow. "It's something Teacher taught us as a sort of final test in our training. It's the theory that everything on earth is simply a blip in the natural order of things. One life, be it a human's or an amoeba's, is still just one life, and it's no more important than anything else. No matter how a life ends, it returns to nature and in turn spawns new life. It's the ultimate manifestation of Equivalent Exchange." He gazed wistfully down at his hands. "It stops people from thinking they're all-important, because their life is no more valuable than anyone else's. It's the best lesson Teacher ever taught us."

"I know you're not religious, but that sounds like the Christian perspective of 'ashes to ashes, dust to dust'."

Ed shrugged. "Well, it sounds like they actually managed to get something right after all."

Grissom huffed a small chuckle. "I believe in a healthy knowledge of the arcane and spiritual aspects of society. It gives you a better understanding of people. And who knows? You might find something enlightening."

Ed blew his bangs out of his face. "Well, I've seen enough of religions to know that I really don't want to get mixed up in all that. It never made sense to me, and it probably never will. I deal with facts, and humans are the closest things to visible, knowable gods that there is." He snorted. "And considering how messed up we are in comparison to supposedly lesser creatures, I'd prefer never to find out what could possibly be 'greater' than us."

He couldn't help but feel that Grissom agreed.

The older man finally hummed deep in his throat. "I think I understand what you're saying a bit better now, Ed, but I still don't think I can let you do too much in terms of the case. But," he held up a hand as Ed opened his mouth to protest, "I think I can let you look in on what exactly we do around here."

Ed blinked. "How is _that _Equivalent Exchange? I'm supposed to do something for _you_, not the other way around!"

Grissom gave a sly little smile. "Greg loves to share his knowledge. Think of it as an information exchange. You give me information about your brother, and my team gives you information about what they do for a living."

"That's not how it works!" Ed protested, even though the thought of learning what these people actually _did_—getting to actually see what all that technology did—was incredibly tempting. "You're helping me find Al; you're not supposed to give me something more."

"Well then, you'll be helping Greg stay grounded. He likes to share what he knows, and in doing so he stays concentrated on the tasks I give him. Not to mention that you might actually be able to teach _him_ something."

Ed scratched the side of his head, the other hand on his hip. He really, really wanted to protest again; because that wasn't an equal exchange, not even close! They would be going out of their way to help him find his missing brother, and all he would be doing would be sitting around and listening to a guy talk about what he was doing, which was more beneficial to Ed than to anyone else!

But he also couldn't help but think that Grissom was a skilled enough rationalist to pick up on and exploit a mostly-foreign concept, and he was quite obviously set on getting Ed to accept his terms, with a calm stubbornness that Ed figured could almost rival his own. And the idea of learning from these people who were quite obviously experts in their fields made his hands twitch excitedly as though they could pluck the information out of the very air.

He finally sighed, as though it were a difficult decision to make, and an even harder one to voice. He didn't want Grissom to think he'd given in easily, after all. "Fine. But if and when you actually find Al, I'll figure out something better I can do in return. Because otherwise it's not Equivalent Exchange. Information for information, action for action."

Grissom's knowing smile said he could see straight through Ed's stubborn act. Right then and there, Ed resolved to win the next debate. "Sounds acceptable to me." With that, he stood, shuffling the papers on his desk one more time. "Shall we go and introduce you to Greg properly?"

Ed shrugged. "Fine by me. I have nothing better to do." Despite that, he made sure to stoop and snatch _The Return of the King_ from the floor by his foot and stuff it into the inside pocket of his coat. After all, Greg might bore him and he really did want to finish the novel.

"I really did like that particular insect," Grissom noted suddenly, and Ed followed his gaze to the shattered jar on the floor. Then he shrugged. "I'll sweep it up and find a new jar for it later."

It was instinct, really. At home, if anything was broken, it was an automatic reaction. If he had spared but a second to think about it, maybe he would have realized it was a stupid move. Maybe he would have simply let Grissom sweep up the glass shards and re-jar his bug, and no one would have had any more awkward questions for him. Maybe he wouldn't have gone with his incorrigible impulsiveness _just this once,_ and listened to the Al-voice in his head that was saying no.

But he was Edward Elric, and despite his intelligence, he was never known for his wisdom when it came to being spontaneous.

Just as Grissom stepped past him, Ed leaned down, clapping his hands together and pressing them to the glass shards and small puddle of liquid around the strange green beetle-like bug on the floor. The analysis ran through his head in a split second, and deconstruction followed a millisecond later. Reconstruction took but a moment, and in a flash of bright blue light, the jar sat whole on the hardwood, the bug encased in its gel-like world once more. He cracked his neck slightly as it gave a twinge—probably from bending down so fast after sitting for awhile.

There was an audible swish of fabric and squeak of shoes on the lacquered floor, and Ed looked up to see Grissom's wide eyes staring down at him.

It took only a second for his brain to process what he'd done and the proper words to describe the situation.

"Ah, shit..."

* * *

**Due to the fact that Camp NaNoWriMo was mostly a write-off, I have decided that this is going to be my primary November NaNoWriMo focus. And since I'm the Municipal Liaison of my region, I'm actually not **_**allowed**_** to slack off on my story. So expect at least 50k come the end of November! Until then, I have another chapter almost finished, and will likely put it up sometime in October, unless I get inspiration and write more before then. University has started, and I'm as busy as always, so hopefully it will still all work out.**

**I seem to be doing a lot of stream-of-consciousness writing lately. Does that appeal to you guys, or would you prefer if I avoided it? I'd love to hear your opinions on it! Also, please let me know if the plot is moving well enough for you.  
**

**I had someone ask about To Be Brothers—it's unlikely that that will be updated in the very near future, though I DO have some stuff written down for it. I've decided, especially now, that I'm going to focus on MTJAM at least until November's end. I'm still trying to perfectly work out how TTB's plotline will be revealed, as time-travel stories can make it difficult to properly reveal information in an order that both makes sense and still keeps people guessing.**

**By the way, the fact that we're nearly at SEVEN HUNDRED REVIEWS sort of breaks my brain. No big deal, I'm just going to go cry with the overwhelming awesomeness you guys represent.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	17. A Scientist's Paradox

**And so NaNoWriMo is finished, as is crunch time for university. One more week and my final exams will be done, and Christmas break will commence!**

**Warnings:**** Some language, bull-headedness, mutual confusion, and a bit of angst**

* * *

Grissom was already cursing himself six ways from Sunday as he stared silently down into Ed's wide golden eyes.

_Why_ had he walked past him at _that exact moment_? Why had he taken that crucial last-second step that took Ed out of his peripheral vision just as the blue light flared? Why had his nervous system's response cost him that half-second it took for the light to fade before he turned and saw Ed kneeling before a perfectly whole, flawless jar and contents?

Most of all, he was cursing himself because _why hadn't he anticipated that in the first place?_

But the answer was right there in the forefront of his mind: Because he hadn't expected Ed to actually fix it. He had mentioned it in the vain hope that maybe he would offer to repair it for him, and he would be able to examine it once Ed brought it back after doing whatever it was he did. He already knew that the teen was too intelligent—and too cagey—to actually show him how he did it. He'd fielded enough questions about such related matters that Grissom had come to expect it by now.

But he'd forgotten to account for the fact that, even after knowing him only a week, he knew that Ed was notoriously impulsive.

And now, staring down at an impossibility and the one who'd performed it, his mind still beating itself up for missing such a crucial event, he couldn't help but think that it was one of the stupidest mistakes he'd made in a long time.

"Ah, shit..." Ed muttered, finally breaking their staring contest and rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He leaned his head back and groaned.

Grissom had the strangest feeling that Ed was cursing himself in his head just as violently as Grissom himself was. Oddly, it actually kind of made him feel better.

"What was that?" he demanded, hoping that the straight-forward approach would work in this situation.

"Nothing," Ed muttered, and Grissom nearly groaned at the stubborn lilt to the words. He already knew he was in for a battle with this one.

But, as he had told himself far too many times in the last few days, it was _far_ past time for him to demand answers from the blonde enigma that had thrown him for a loop and then tossed him into a freezing lake of endless questions.

"That wasn't nothing, Ed." He swore he saw the teen's hand twitch, but otherwise he didn't move. Silence reigned for a full minute, and Grissom had the feeling that Ed wouldn't be the first to break. Not on this topic. "You can't just do something entirely inexplicable in my mind and then refuse to satisfy my curiosity." He leaned against the door frame, making himself comfortable. Hopefully that would get his message across.

_I'm willing to wait here until I get some answers, Ed. Are you?_

"I sure as hell can."

_...I guess so._

"Well then, I guess we've reached a disagreement here."

"I guess so." Golden eyes shifted from under a gloved hand to glare at him. Grissom had an almost sad thought about how they had just been having such a _good_ conversation, and now the mood had been utterly ruined. From having a friendly, intelligent debate to having a silent battle of wills in less than ten seconds; it had to be a record.

Well, unless you counted politics. But Grissom never counted politics.

Another minute passed in silence.

Grissom made sure to level his most potent analytical stare straight at the teen. Ed was _not_ going to just sit there until someone came to rescue him, as Catherine invariably would in about two hours. It took awhile, but eventually he noticed it. A tiny little twitch of his nose, the averting of eyes to the other side of the room. A strange movement of his arm and a subtle shift of one of his feet that created an unintentional _squeeeak_ on the linoleum floor. Ed was fidgeting.

Finally, after a particularly silent period of time (which Ed ended with a loud grinding of teeth and another particularly sharp—and probably intentional—squeak from his combat boot), Grissom spoke again.

"You realize we can sit here all night if we have to. I have most of my files on my desk, so I can work if I have to."

Ed's automail fist hit the floor then, and Grissom was rather concerned by the small crack that appeared in the linoleum. "You're treating me like a little kid!" he growled, amber gaze hot enough to have set Grissom on fire if he'd been easily combustible. "I'm not a child!"

"You're acting like one," he replied, keeping his voice as mild as possible. "I'm just curious about what you did. It's easy enough to talk about."

"I'm not going to explain myself just to satisfy your stupid curiosity!"

"I would call it more of a _professional_ curiosity." He raised an eyebrow when Ed scoffed. "This isn't something I'm just asking about for the sake of knowing, Edward. It has enormous bearing on the case, and you know it."

There it was—the reaction he wanted. Ed's glare narrowed as though he had no idea what Grissom was talking about, but the CSI could see a tiny flash of recognition in that hot gaze. Recognition and wariness.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes you do." Ed's eyebrow twitched at the immediate response. "You know exactly how many unexplainable things you've done in the past few days." As if reading from a textbook, Grissom began. "After your sudden appearance at the power plant, you led the police through the plant itself and, in the process, kicked a hole through a wall and produced a weapon that no one has been able to find. We have eye witnesses who swear they saw a flash of bright blue light during at least one of those instances. When you were apprehended, you had no weapon to speak of.

"Later, we received an emergency call from the police station with a guard who claimed you broke the bars of your cell, clapped your hands, and touched the floor. Again, he saw blue light, before, according to his statement, the concrete actually rose up and engulfed him. Then you reportedly did the same to the room's wall, creating a perfect hole to the outside. Blue light. Incidentally, Brass and I examined the hole, and found that the concrete had actually been pushed to either side, like it had been liquefied before reforming with a hole in the middle.

"Then we found you in the park, and you ended up producing a blade from your right sleeve in a flash of blue light. Can you see a pattern starting to form here?"

By this point, Ed's eyes were almost imperceptibly wider, and angry disbelief was creeping into his expression. Grissom wasn't sure if it was anger at him or Ed's own mistakes.

"When you were poisoned, the nurse who helped remove your clothes found nine dollar bills in one of your pockets. They were excellent forgeries, but forgeries nonetheless. It's almost as if they were copied straight from a normal bill. You didn't have anything with you when we found you the first time.

"And then I noticed something else about your clothes. Your coat was red the day we found you. Mysteriously, it had turned black in the course of a night. Either you had managed somehow to find a black coat with the same cut as your old one, or it somehow changed colour. And then the day we visited you in the hospital, there was a flash of blue light under the door, and your coat's colour was red again, as if it had never changed.

"I'm a scientist, Edward. I follow the facts. And I'm naturally inquisitive; it's part of my job. You said that the components of the coat's dye were 'easy enough to change', so I decided to test it. I got a sample of the material—"

Ed let out an outraged little growl, pulling up the side of his coat and examining the hem until he found the tiny piece of missing material. "You cut my coat?" he said incredulously, holding the hem as though it were an accusation. "I like this coat!"

Grissom shrugged. "I can always give the piece back to you, though it's probably been stained by chemicals and cut into pieces. But that's probably not much of a problem for you, seeing as you could simply put it back together again." He raised an eyebrow in silent inquiry, head tilted toward the pristine jar on the floor. Ed merely glowered at him. "I had Greg test it, and he found something interesting; 'something cool', as he put it."

Ed crossed his arms over his chest. "There's nothing special about my coat."

"Then you were already aware that both the material and the dye are quite literally one hundred percent pure, which is actually a scientific impossibility outside of a laboratory?"

The teen blinked at him in consternation. "What?"

"One hundred percent pure. No imperfections."

Ed shook his head, his eyebrows coming together. "No, I mean that you can't do that except in a laboratory? What kind of science can't do it on its own?"

Grissom's eyebrows rose. "There's no science—except perhaps atomic chemistry—that can make something that perfect."

"But you claim you're a scientist," Ed insisted, standing and running a hand through his hair. "Scientists deal with the elements. You should be able to make something sufficiently pure on a child's budget."

"Not all scientists work with chemistry." Grissom rubbed his chin. "And there are very few who would have the expertise to build something atomically. In fact," his eyebrows came together, "I haven't actually heard of anyone doing that before, especially with something as complex as organic cotton fabric."

Putting a hand on his chin, Ed began to pace. "But that doesn't make any _sense_. What kind of scientists do you honestly have around here?"

Grissom was baffled by Ed's confusion. What kind of place did he come from where it was supposedly _commonplace_ to be able to change things at an atomic level? In fact, how would such a place survive? He couldn't even imagine how quickly the United States would collapse if everyone—or even a small percentage of people—was able to make whatever they needed. The potential for weapons alone was enormous—frighteningly so.

"We have chemists, mathematicians, nuclear physicists—"

"_Physics_!" Ed suddenly threw up his hands, and then buried them in his hair. "Damnit, forgot about physics..."

Grissom took a step toward the teen. "You _forgot_ about physics?"

Ed clenched his teeth. "I forgot you people _use_ that."

"_What_?" He couldn't help it. Usually, everything Grissom heard made some kind of sense to him, even if he couldn't see it yet. He would know that there was some sort of explanation, and he would be perfectly content with it, as long as said explanation eventually presented itself. But _this_... This he couldn't even conceive of an explanation for.

Edward was an incredibly intelligent young man. Grissom was, frankly, impressed by his ability to rationalize and the sheer amount of information he could absorb. His memory was also significant, nearly eidetic, if what Sara said was any indication. The teen was a prodigy if there ever was one, especially if his claim of teaching himself and his brother from books alone when they were still young children was true. He didn't act like any other teenager he had ever encountered, and he had encountered a lot. He had far too much maturity (in most situations) and worldliness to truly appear as a teenager once you knew him for any length of time. He had been taught by a woman who seemed to have a significant amount of wisdom, though her methods weren't really ones Grissom could approve of.

But to imagine that he had never used physics, never applied it in any way, and actually maintained that physics wasn't something worth remembering, let alone contemplating... It was impossible to picture. And there was no reason in Grissom's mind that he could use to rationalize such an outrageous opinion.

"But that still doesn't make any sense..." Ed suddenly muttered, ignoring—or not hearing—Grissom's original exclamation. His hand was rubbing his chin again, and Grissom absently mused about why the teen didn't grow a beard that he could stroke. "The energy shouldn't be working..." Suddenly, he rounded on Grissom. "I need a piece of paper and a pencil."

Grissom blinked. It was such a sudden request that he almost didn't know how to react. But there was something in Ed's blazing eyes that he recognized. The look of someone on the verge of a discovery. Without really thinking about it, he stepped to his desk and grabbed the first blank sheet and pen that his fingers encountered, handing them to the Ed. The teen snatched them away and immediately knelt on the floor, scribbling away with a remarkably steady hand. He watched with fascination as dozens of numbers and strange mathematical symbols slowly formed on the page, symbols that he had never seen before. He saw a few things he recognized, like short-hand division, but others were beyond him. And—were those _Greek letters_?

He was startled when Ed abruptly growled and scratched out a good third of the page, before violently turning it over and scribbling more numbers, this time with slightly less steadiness than before. The number got smaller and smaller as he neared the bottom of the page, until they were nearly microscopic and completely illegible.

"More paper," Ed demanded suddenly, holding out his right hand as his left kept scribbling. As Grissom fetched the requested page, he wondered absently if Ed's automail hand was precise enough to actually be able to write.

The teen practically crumpled the paper when he ripped it from Grissom's offering hand, and immediately it was being filled with numbers and symbols, the pace not slowing at all as he changed pages. Grissom quickly realized that he would probably need more paper still.

Five minutes later, Ed sat surrounded by over two dozen sheets of paper, each covered with incomprehensible numbers and symbols. Grissom thought he actually saw a number of Latin words on the last three pages, though he couldn't quite tell due to the scrawl that the blonde's writing had become.

Ed was clenching the pen tightly in his right hand—Grissom had learned at about the sixth page that, yes, Ed's automail hand _could_ write, but it automatically made everything he wrote about twice as illegible. The upside was that it didn't seem to get tired like his left hand had. His left was currently tapping his knee as if using Morse code could make the answer clearer to him.

Suddenly, he threw the pen down with a clatter. "Damnit, where does it _come_ from?"

* * *

It made no _sense_.

It had taken him a good little while on the Other Side of the Gate with his father to figure out that no, alchemy would _not _work there. It had taken Hohenheim even longer to explain to him the concept of physics—a driving force in the universe, a set of Laws just like Equivalent Exchange that were unbreakable and governed everything from the tiniest atoms to the enormous stars.

It had taken him only a moment to piece together the fact that where alchemy existed on _his _side of the Gate, physics was its counterpart on the _other_ side. They shared enough similarities that the theory was plausible; and they were different enough that it worked to sort of explain some of the differences between the worlds.

The power of the Gate fuelled either one or the other; alchemy on his side, physics on the other side.

They were _not _supposed to work at the same time.

He didn't know why the inconsistency had not occurred to him before; yes, he knew that alchemy had not worked on the Other Side the last time he had crossed through the Gate. But he had simply assumed that there were more than just two different worlds; that this one that he had now landed in operated with alchemy, even though the people here didn't seem to know about it very much. Actually, he had more assumed that alchemy _was_ known, but they didn't recognize his alchemy due to his lack of using a transmutation circle.

But now that he had actually thought about the fact that physics was _known_ and used here, that theory seemed very unlikely.

Snatching up the slightly-crushed pen from where it lay on the floor, he scribbled out one of the most basic, recognizable transmutation circles—two circles, one within the other, with a larger square, its corners touching the outer circle's edges, and a smaller square offset within that—and held it up to Grissom.

"Does this mean anything to you?" he demanded.

He could tell that Grissom was honestly giving it some thought, instead of simply humouring him. It took him a good minute, but finally he shook his head. "No, it doesn't," he said, but Ed had already guessed the answer from the lack of immediate response. He turned back to the paper scattered on the floor, ignoring the fact that the CSI's mouth had opened to ask a question.

Ed knew that Grissom was an incredibly intelligent man. He deduced things quickly, and could follow trails like nobody's business, as exemplified by his explanation of what he'd discovered about Ed himself. They had had the first intelligent debate that Ed had participated in since he arrived on this side of the Gate. Grissom did not assume; he did not make conjectures from incomplete explanations. He sought out the answers without bias until he got them. And he was nearly as stubborn as Ed himself, but endlessly more patient.

But to imagine that he had never heard of alchemy, never applied it in any way, despite being one who would seek out any knowledge of it if he heard of something that was apparently not viable to him... It was impossible to picture.

Unless, of course, alchemy didn't exist here.

Which brought him back to the concept of energies.

If alchemy didn't exist here, then there was no feasible way that it would work for him. Last time he had landed in a world where physics existed and alchemy didn't, he had been unable to perform even the simplest of transmutations, even with a circle. Physics took that energy. It could not be redirected; it could not be used in another format. Alchemy _should not work here_.

Unless, of course, it really was a third 'side' of the Gate, and both alchemy and physics worked, even if only a few people may have heard of alchemy.

But that didn't make sense, either. He had used what knowledge the Gate had given him of the energy flows and tried to calculate the output that it would take to fuel both alchemy—which seemed to be working optimally for him—and the physics that probably powered all, or most, of the near-fantastical technology that surrounded him in this world. No matter how he manipulated it, no matter how many variables he added, the outcome remained the same.

There was simply not enough energy, and too little variation in that energy's flow, to fuel both alchemy and physics.

Unless the information he learned from the Gate no longer applied in this third world—

An idea came to him to try and eliminate that possible variable.

"Mr. Grissom."

The man was already watching him when he looked up, and he wondered if the CSI had even taken his eyes off of him in all the time he'd been thinking. Actually, he could remember the feeling of a weighted gaze on him the entire time he'd been working with his formulas, but he had ignored them in favour of his thought processes.

"Yes, Ed?" he prompted.

Ed shook his head to clear it. "Are there places called London and Munich around here? Even in another country—"

The older man was already nodding before the end of the first sentence. "London is in England, and Munich is in Germany. They're in Europe, across the Atlantic."

Ed suddenly felt ill. "Germany?"

Grissom cocked his head to one side. "Did your teacher not teach you basic geography or history? Germany is a prominent figure in both World Wars in the last century."

Ed slowly rested his forehead on the heel of his hand. "Those World Wars... Did one of them happen sometime around 1916?"

He could almost feel Grissom's nod, like it made the air heavier around him. "The first World War. It lasted nearly five years, from 1914 to 1918. Germany was the leader of the Central Powers, the alliance of three countries that opposed the Allies, which included Great Britain and Russia."

His stomach gave an unpleasant lurch. "But that makes _no sense..._"

"What doesn't make sense?"

Ed shook his head, clenching his fists. "_None of it_!"

"Well that's not vague at all." Both Grissom and Ed whirled to face the door, Ed's hands unconsciously coming closer together in an almost-clapping motion. One of the CSIs Ed had seen around the lab stood in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest and his eyebrow raised as he leaned against the door frame. "Sounds like how I felt in advanced calculus in high school."

The two occupants of the room simply stared at the man, who was now smirking slightly. Ed slowly relaxed his hands, but didn't relax his mind. This was an opportunity he didn't want to miss.

The silence was stretching slightly, until the CSI stepped forward with his right hand held out. "I don't think we've actually been introduced yet. Nick Stokes, CSI."

Ed met the man's gaze as he took his hand. "Edward Elric." His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw something in Nick's eyes that he recognized. But before he could actually figure out what it was, the older man had turned his head to look at Grissom.

"Can I talk to you for a second, Gris?" He held up a file folder that Ed hadn't noticed he was carrying.

Grissom looked entirely unfazed as he nodded, but his stare was locked on Ed. It spoke volumes, not the least of which was '_We're going to be talking later'._ "Could you wait outside for a few minutes, Ed?"

Ed fervently hoped there wouldn't _be_ a later. But, before Grissom could change his mind and send Nick away or something entirely inconvenient like that, Ed snatched up _The Return of the King_ and edged quickly out of the room, muttering a quick assent and firmly ignoring the still-broken state of the chair he'd kicked. One stupid alchemy mistake was more than enough for one night.

* * *

Grissom watched Ed leave with no small amount of trepidation. He'd been _so close_ to getting some kind of answer from the teen. Ed had been certainly flustered enough to have let something slip. The lead CSI carefully turned the information he'd gleaned over in his head, while absently bending down to pick up the jarred bug on the floor. With expert eyes, he examined the glass and the contents within, but couldn't find a single flaw in the repair. It was as if it had never been broken.

"So what's up?"

Grissom blinked and looked up at Nick. It took him a moment to decide that he wasn't actually irritated with the younger man for interrupting his interrogation of Ed. After all, Nick likely wouldn't have made his presence known if it wasn't important.

"Just having a discussion with our friendly neighbourhood enigma."

Nick eyed the plethora of pages scattered on the ground, and the jar currently in his boss' hands. "Seems like a lively discussion to me." He bent down and picked up one of the pages, squinting at the scribbles written on it. "Trying to work out the theory of relativity in Latin or something?"

Grissom spared him a raised eyebrow before setting down his jar in its place on the shelf. "No, that's all Ed's work."

Nick shook his head with the sort of accepting disbelief that came with being around someone like Grissom for a number of years. "Sara said he was smart, but this looks like something out of a physics doctorate program."

"Not physics," Grissom corrected, tapping his nail against the jar absently. "He says he doesn't deal with physics."

Nick shrugged. "Either way, it doesn't make any sense to me."

"I don't think it's supposed to," Grissom replied with an amused smile, before leaning down and picking up a few pages, straightening them into a neat little stack. "He'll probably want these at some point. Help me for a second?"

Nick obligingly knelt and began to shuffle paper into a larger stack, setting aside his file folder. Before long they had a pile sitting neatly on the corner of Grissom's desk. The older man spared a look out the glass windows of the office to confirm that Ed was, in fact, sitting in a chair across the hall, his nose once more buried in _The Return of the King_, before he turned to Nick once more.

He watched the younger man bend down once more to pick up the folder he'd brought in. There was a barely noticeable pallor about Nick's face as he straightened, and something in his eyes was tight and painful. Grissom shook his head to himself and placed a hand on Nick's shoulder.

"Hey. You okay?"

Nick met his gaze and immediately looked away, towards the ceiling, as if fighting some unnameable emotion. Grissom squeezed his shoulder.

"If you need a day off, just let me know," he assured him.

Nick closed his eyes and shook his head. "No," he murmured, before running a hand over his face. "No," he repeated with more conviction, "I can finish this. I'm okay."

Grissom gave a sad little smile before giving Nick's shoulder a firm pat. "We're all here for you, Pancho."

The nickname made Nick huff a little laugh and rub at his eyes, but he rallied himself in a moment. "Yeah, I know." With a visible shake, he rerouted his thoughts and stood a little straighter, holding up the folder he'd brought. "We found some info on the latest vic."

Grissom gave Nick another encouraging smile and sat down behind his desk, gesturing Nick to sit in the chair opposite him. The younger man moved to sit, before standing again and giving the chair an odd look.

"The leg's broken."

Grissom blinked, looking down at the chair. Sure enough, one of the legs was cracked and the chair was leaning against the shelf behind it. With a blink, he remembered why. "Ah. Forgot."

Nick gave him a strange look and raised his eyebrow.

"There's another one over there," he said in lieu of explaining, gesturing to another chair in the corner near the door. Nick shook his head with a bemused smile and dragged the new chair over.

"Another souvenir of your conversation with Ed?"

Grissom merely gave the CSI a mysterious little smile and gestured for the folder. Nick sighed and handed it over.

"Her name's Melissa Karhold. Twenty three, a Virginia native, visiting with her sister. She went missing three days ago when they were at the Palazzo. She went to the bathroom around eleven and her sister didn't notice she wasn't coming back until about half an hour later."

Grissom rubbed his chin. "She went missing at the casino? Did anyone check the tapes there?"

"Warrick's doing that now. And Doc finished the autopsy around midnight."

"And?"

Nick sighed. "He couldn't find anything incriminating, because of the... state she was in," he gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, as though dislodging something, "but he could tell that she wasn't starved. She was still alive when... when the explosion happened, but she hadn't been in there long enough to even get severely dehydrated. Doc says she was probably in there no more than thirty six hours."

Grissom's eyebrows came together. "But for her to have ended up in there so late..."

Nick's lips tightened. "She had to have been held somewhere else beforehand."

Grissom nodded. "And that means that there's got to be someplace where some kind of evidence was left behind."

"But where?" Nick shook his head with an angry sigh. "There's no evidence at any of the scenes. All of the women went missing without a trace and turned up dead with nothing but their own blood and fibres. We have a single murder weapon with only one fingerprint, a kid who seems to have nothing to do with the case except he's being targeted for some reason, and an entire city in which there _might _be a hideout that we have no way to find without some kind of clue in the right direction first."

"That about sums it up."

"People are _dying_ here, Grissom!" Nick suddenly snapped, running a hand through his hair and leaning forward. "We can't just sit around and do _nothing_!"

Grissom waited as Nick clasped his hands and leaned on them, his elbows on his knees. The CSI's breathing was tightly controlled in a way that suggested he was trying his best not to say something he might regret. After a minute, his breathing loosened and he sighed, shaking his head as he sat up slightly.

Grissom waited until he'd met his eyes before speaking.

"Nick, you know as well as I do that we can't start blaming ourselves."

"I _know_ that—" He was cut off by his boss' forestalling hand.

"I know you do. You've been in this business long enough. But as soon as we start looking at a lack of evidence and thinking,_ Who else might die because I can't figure this out fast enough?_, that's a different kind of blame. It's not something you can control. All we can do is—"

"—Follow the evidence and see where it takes us," Nick cut in, quoting Grissom's oft-used philosophy. "I know, Gris. It's just..."

"It's personal right now."

Nick nodded, a grimace twisting his mouth. "I don't know how to react. I mean, I know exactly what she was going through and I can't help but keep thinking it could have been me. I know I'm not supposed to be personally involved—"

"This isn't personal involvement. Not the kind that can get you removed from a case. You just have experience with this sort of thing." He felt a twinge of unease in downplaying Nick's kidnapping in such a way, but he could tell that his reassurance was helping the younger man. A little bit of the tension around his eyes was loosening, though the haunted look of pain still remained in his eyes. Grissom had a feeling that that was something was wasn't going to go away until the case was finished, as the very least. "You're helping her by finding her killer. That's the most you can do for the dead."

Nick tugged at one of his ears absently. "Yeah, I know." Then he suddenly sighed. "But her sister's coming later this morning. She wants to see the body."

Grissom grimaced. "That's not a good idea, Nick," he cautioned.

"I told her that, but I don't think she's going to listen."

He sighed "Well, it's well within her rights as next of kin to see the body. If she thinks she's up to it, there's nothing we can do."

Nick's jaw clenched. "She's not going to like it."

"But you'll be there to talk to her."

The CSI blinked incredulously. "You want me to talk to her? Right after she's seen what's left of her little sister's body? What kind of things am I supposed to say?"

Grissom eyed him shrewdly. "You're good at talking, Nick. You'll come up with something."

Nick shook his head, a self-deprecating chuckle making its way between his lips. "I think you have a little too much confidence in me, Grissom."

"Assurance is two-thirds of success." When Nick raised an eyebrow at him, he chuckled. "A Scottish proverb."

With a snort, Nick stood and made his way to the door. "I'll try, but don't blame me if she comes running past screaming about a guy trying to pretend he knows what he's doing."

Grissom only offered him a raised eyebrow. Nick rolled his eyes and opened the door.

"Oh, and can you send Ed back in here?" Grissom asked suddenly.

Nick nodded and stuck his head around the door, before his eyebrows came together and he looked back.

"He's not there anymore."

* * *

**Thank you all for being patient as I wallowed through the mire of NaNoWriMo this past November. I now have another 50,000 words that can be added to this story after some heavy editing. Unfortunately, it seems I wasn't very clear about what I was doing this past month; a few of you are quite irked that you didn't see any of that 50k **_**during**_** November. I apologize that I confused you. The entirety of my time has been spent writing at a breakneck pace in order to reach the word goal by the end of the month, with no regard to plot holes, grammatical errors, or other problems. All of these still need to be fixed, and I have no intention of suddenly flooding this story with twenty new chapters all at once. I meant to say that there would be **_**no**_** updates in November, and that the chapters would start appearing as I edit them through December and the coming new year. I will hopefully update on a weekly or—if necessary—bi-weekly basis. There are still huge things that need to be added, but there won't be huge waiting periods. I also don't want to run out of words before I get more written.**

**After all of that, I would just like to say that I love you all and hope this chapter met your expectations.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	18. Trading Knowledge

**For the delay, I have one word: Christmas. That is all. :)**

**I would like to make a note about the physics vs. Alchemy disparity between the two worlds. If you are familiar with the 2003 anime, you know that, on Ed's side of the Gate, alchemy rose superior to physics as the world formed, while it was the other way around on our side. This can be interpreted in several ways. I chose to use my own interpretation, and also extrapolate from information given in Conqueror of Shamballa, even if its plot is not included in my fanfiction. As it is very obvious that alchemy does not work in our world—and exceptions will be explained later—it stands to reason that advanced physics, such as those required to make a uranium bomb or create airplanes, could conceivably not work in the alchemical world. Things that can be achieved through alchemy are achieved through physics on our side, and vice versa. I am not saying that natural processes that govern the universe do not exist on one side or the other; I am saying that the ability for people to harness and understand those processes does not exist, in the same way that scientists cannot actually produce the effects of alchemy that were claimed to have been possible hundreds, or even thousands, of years ago. Physics, to Edward, is not something that can be applied to everyday situations, as there are alchemical explanations instead. In their natures, physics and alchemy are the same, but the ways in which they are used and understood is fundamentally different. **

**If that explanation is not sufficient, I apologize, but I will make one more note: This is a work of fanfiction, and this interpretation is based on what little information has been provided about the nature of alchemy and physics in Fullmetal Alchemist. I am not a physicist myself, and its correlations with alchemy are certainly not my area of expertise. Please suspend any disbelief you may have, because this is fiction and is likely to have elements that are not necessarily perfect or believable.**

**Warnings:**** Teenage hormones, techno-talk, CAPSLOCK.**

**Disclaimer:**** I am not a forensic scientist. Please don't ream me out if my techno-speak is wrong. I did my best, but the internet is not always reliable. I welcome any well-meaning corrections and suggestions, though. (I also don't own FMA or CSI.)  
**

* * *

Ed tried not to let his eyes widen as he looked around. He'd thought he'd seen enough when he was just _outside_ of the room, but actually being in it—well, that was something else.

"So what do you think?"

Ed shook his head, still trying to come up with the right words. Strange, loud music was playing from a stereo off in the corner, and a screen blinked through a bewildering number of what Ed could only assume were fingerprints. Something whirred behind him, and he turned to see a strange machine with a number of blinking lights sitting against the far wall. It clicked and then stopped moving, beeping shrilly.

"Ah!" Greg Sanders, Trace expert extraordinaire and a much more hyperactive man than Ed had expected, darted over to the machine and pulled off the sheet that was currently printing out of it. "That'd be Warrick's DNA analysis for the Warchester case..." He looked over the results, gave a little fist pump, and stuck the sheet in an envelope that he threw haphazardly on one of the metal table near the door.

Ed could only watch as another machine gave a warble that sounded something like a duck and spat out another sheet, and Greg darted over to that one, as well. He clutched the book in his hand impulsively, alternately wishing he was somewhere other than among strange machines that he didn't understand the purpose of, and hoping that he could stay and actually find out something about what they did and how they worked. It had been entirely unexpected when Greg had accosted him in the hallway and insisted that he come "check out the awesome things I do in the lab. It's gotta be boring sitting and reading all day".

Ed had been hesitant, of course—Grissom probably wouldn't be happy that he'd wandered off, especially after Sara's carefully worded order that he _not_ be allowed to wander alone and eat other people's food whenever he pleased. Of course, he had also quickly realized that going somewhere with Greg, who was a member of Grissom's team, easily fell under the 'accompanied' category.

It didn't hurt that Greg had introduced himself as "the awesome guy who nobody would get any work done without." It seemed like he was a man after Ed's own heart.

"So what do you think?" Greg repeated, turning to Ed and giving him a look that was disturbingly reminiscent of a puppy.

"It's... like nothing I've ever seen before," he said, still looking around. There were just _so many things_ in this room that he'd never imagined before. Cocking his head to one side, he gently tapped a large glass cube that had some kind of rack inside of it. "What does this do?"

Greg smiled, his eyes sparkling. In that moment, Ed couldn't help but think of Hughes when he was about to pull out pictures of Elysia. The connection was both comforting and disturbing.

"That's the fumigation hood. Basically, we use vacuum metal deposition to find fingerprints and some other trace oils and stuff like that. You hang the evidence from the rack and start the machine, and it creates fumes from substances like ethyl cyanoacrylate, which is a component in super glue. The particles stick to the oils that make up fingerprints, and after awhile they become visible. It's more effective than the usual talcum powder."

Ed blinked. That... actually sounded _profoundly_ useful.

"What about this one?" he asked immediately, pointing at the machine that had beeped earlier. He'd said something about DNA, right?

"That's the machine we use for PCR testing. That's polymerase chain reactions. It basically identifies STRs—short tandem repeats—in someone's DNA and uses an electrophoretic gel to separate it into bands that can be used to identify similarities in different people's DNA." As an example, he snatched up the envelope he'd labelled for Warrick and showed the teen the black bands adorning the sheet he'd stuffed inside. "You following here?"

Ed nodded, his curiosity piqued. "And that one?" he asked, pointing to a rather haphazard-looking pile of... something that he couldn't tell whether or not it was actually functional. He'd ask about the details more later; right now he just wanted to know what all these weird machines _did._

Greg followed his finger and shrugged. "Oh, that's the new gas chromatograph we're trying to put together. They can't ship all the parts at once, because of its size and where they're made, but there are only a few more pieces we need to add. It should be ready in a week or two." He smiled and turned to a large metal box in the corner. "Have you ever seen one of these...?"

* * *

Grissom's mouth twitched in what could almost be considered a smile as he and Catherine entered the Trace lab. He didn't want to say it was a smile—no, not yet. That would be too much like gloating.

Of course, he definitely felt like gloating with how quickly Greg and Ed had hit it off.

There had been some confusion when the teen had gone missing from the hall outside of Grissom's office, but it hadn't taken more than a question or two of the receptionist down the hall to find out that Greg had walked past, dragging an unprotesting Ed behind him on the way to the Trace lab. It seemed like the Trace expert was one step ahead of his boss.

Now, to find them both bent over a sheet of paper as Greg animatedly explained the processes of DNA while motioning with his hands, and Ed nodding with a strange light in his eyes that suggested more than just a passing interest, Grissom couldn't help but feel a little bit accomplished that he'd seen this coming long before the two had even been introduced.

"Alright, party's over, everyone go home," Catherine quipped from behind him. Ed and Greg both looked up, identical raised-eyebrow looks on their faces. "Come on, Ed, I have to get home before Lindsay leaves for school."

Grissom smiled as Ed sighed in a very put-upon way and clapped a hand to Greg's shoulder. "I'll see you later, then. You can finish telling me about DNA chains."

"Sure thing," Greg replied with an easy smile as Ed made his way over to Catherine.

"Edward Elric, reporting for duty," the teenager said teasingly, standing at attention with his hand raised in a very official-looking salute. Catherine snorted and swatted the hand down—or tried to; Ed smirked as the older woman rubbed her fingers and scowled from after hitting the hard metal of his automail.

"Brat," she growled good-naturedly, giving him a swat on the other arm before ushering him out the door.

Grissom smiled, slightly uneasy. Despite its joking nature, that salute had looked surprisingly authentic. And he didn't like the implications of that. But the thought was swept from his mind as Greg turned to him with a huge grin on his face.

"Gris, I love that kid. Love him. That's really all I can say about that."

The CSI raised an eyebrow. "Nothing else? Nothing about how you extolled the virtues of lab equipment and microscopic evidence into his youthful ears until his brain was ready to explode?"

Greg snorted and rolled his eyes. "If he hadn't've been interested, I wouldn't've talked his ear off." At Grissom's raised eyebrow, he amended, "Well, not as much. But still, that kid's like a sponge. You sure he's not some kind of rocket scientist in disguise? Alien, maybe?"

Grissom shook his head in amusement. Greg's theories were outlandish at best, and he knew the best way was to simply ignore them. "Want to come to my office and talk about it? I'm sure you told him some interesting things."

The younger man rolled his eyes again. "You're seriously still trying to figure out more stuff about him? I thought he was cleared."

"Innocent doesn't mean he doesn't still have questions around him that I want answered," the CSI replied shrewdly, not even fazed by Greg calling his bluff. "I have a number of things he still hasn't answered for."

Greg shrugged and followed his superior out the door. "Well, I can save you the trouble and tell you that he's really interested in all the DNA stuff, asking if a person can exist without it or how much would change if you changed even a tiny section of it. That sort of thing."

Grissom cocked his head. "Just for academic purposes?"

"Well, it was like he'd never heard of DNA before, except maybe in passing. But that's just weird, because everyone's taught it in high school."

"Ed didn't go to high school."

Greg blinked. "You found his records?"

Grissom shook his head. "No, but that would make things easier. He told Sara that the other day."

"Hnh. That's weird. I'd figure someone like him would be all for the learning-everything-you-possibly-can stuff."

"But we both know that high school doesn't offer much in that department," Grissom said with a slight smile. Greg grinned back and shrugged.

"Well hey, it's basic knowledge. You gotta suffer through it." His lips pursed. "Or not, in Ed's case."

"Indeed." Grissom opened the door of his office and led the younger man inside.

Greg looked around. "I like what you've done with the place. Modern art—nice." He gestured at the broken chair leaning against the shelf with a smirk.

Grissom gave him a slightly withering look. "I'll get that fixed later."

"No, no, don't change it on my account; whatever floats your boat, really." The mischievous grin on his face said otherwise.

The lead CSI merely raised an eyebrow and sat behind his desk. "Do you have anything new for me?"

Greg, with that grin still opening his face like a Cheshire cat, pulled the broken chair forward and sat on it, carefully balancing it on the two back legs and bracing his feet against Grissom's desk. His superior's mouth twitched as the Trace expert lounged with his hands behind his head as if it were the most comfortable position on the planet.

"Nope, not much. Finished the DNA analysis and ID for Melissa Karhold, and for Ed."

"Oh?"

"Yeah. Can't really do anything with it right now, though. Except to say it doesn't match any of the epithelials Doc found under the latest vic's fingernails."

Grissom did a double take. "Epithelials?"

Greg's eyes sparkled and his grin widened. "Epithelials," he repeated with a sharp nod.

"What epithelials?"

"Doc found them about half an hour ago. One of Karhold's fingers were still fully intact, and he found a few skin cells under the nail. It was enough to get some DNA off of, and it's not the vic's."

Grissom sat up straight and put his hands firmly on the desk. "The killer's?"

"We're not sure yet, but we think so. It could be why he tried to blow her up instead of his usual MO."

The older man leaned back and put a hand over his face, breathing a heavy sigh that seemed to unknot years of tension from his shoulders. Epithelials... It could be nothing. It could be just a bit of something the vic picked up before her capture. It could even be a mistaken analysis.

But it could also be the thing they needed to actually start making a break on this case.

"Check it again," he ordered suddenly, meeting Greg's eyes as he lowered his hand. "I don't want to look back on this later and kick ourselves for mis-IDing it."

"I'll get on that," Greg agreed, not looking at all irritated by the order. Grissom wasn't questioning his abilities, after all; he just wanted to be two hundred percent sure.

"And run it through the database. It probably won't come up with anything, but..."

Greg nodded sharply, a smile still adorning his features. He let the chair fall back onto four legs.

Well, three, anyway.

Grissom couldn't help but roll his eyes as Greg went tumbling down in front of the desk, having forgotten the state of what he'd been sitting on. He was just glad that the Trace expert had fallen forward, instead of sideways into the shelves. One broken jar was more than enough for the day.

Greg rubbed his head sheepishly as he grabbed the edge of the desk and hauled himself back to his feet.

"Nice weather down there?" Grissom asked innocently. Greg shot him a look of embarrassed annoyance and looked down, rubbing his head. Abruptly, he paused.

"Hey Gris, what's this?"

Grissom looked down at the sheet of paper Greg's hand was resting on, realizing it was the top of the stack of paper Ed had been scribbling on. The sheet was covered in tiny numbers and strange letters.

"Those are Ed's notes."

"Notes about what?" Greg asked curiously, picking up the stack and leafing through it. "It's definitely more than just recreational stuff. I've never seen these kinds of calculations before." He held one of the sheets very close to his face. "Is that _Latin_?"

"I'm not sure. He wouldn't tell me what it was for."

Greg flipped through a few more pages before stopping and pulling one out from the middle of the pile. "What's this one?"

Grissom looked up to see him holding up the strange circle-and-square design that Ed had attempted to have him identify. "Also not sure."

Greg cocked his head to one side and blinked at the array. "If I didn't know any better, I'd say it's something for witchcraft or sorcery. But that usually involves a pentagram, not this shape..." Grissom raised an eyebrow, but didn't interrupt. The young scientist loved his strange mythology. "Actually, it looks a lot like something from a book I read a few years ago about ancient Alchemy."

The CSI raised both eyebrows. "Alchemy."

Greg shrugged. "Hey, you never know."

Grissom crossed his arms over his chest. "I highly doubt that a teenager who didn't even attend high school and has only a passing awareness of physics would be trying to research Alchemy."

"Alchemy doesn't deal with physics; it's more chemistry."

"It's a pseudo-science, Greg. And it died out centuries ago."

Greg shrugged again. "It's just a plausible as witchcraft."

"Which is not very plausible at all."

"Well you're no fun," he muttered. "I'll just go do that DNA analysis again." He turned to the door, before abruptly turning back and holding up the sheet still in his hand. "Mind if I keep this? It's cool."

Grissom smiled indulgently. "Be my guest."

Greg gave him a small grin. "Well, see you in a bit. And, Gris?" The CSI looked up. "Get some sleep tonight, okay? We can't really have you keeling over from pulling too many all-nighters."

"I'll keep that in mind," he replied, thoughtful, as Greg made his way out of the office and closed the door behind him.

* * *

Ed blinked open his eyes suddenly and stared at the dimly-lit ceiling above him. Disoriented for a moment, he turned his head just enough to make out a dim outline of a window off to his left, covered in black-out blinds. With a tiny shake of his head, he remembered. _Catherine's. Las Vegas. Crime stuff._

How long would it take for him to be able to wake up and remember exactly where he was? Though, he supposed, the bed was a good indication that he wasn't at home; it had been a very long time since he'd slept in anything nearly as soft, and he was frankly surprised he could sleep in it at all.

Blinking again in the gloom, he tried to figure out what had woken him. It wasn't just his body deciding it was ready to wake up; he and Al had determined years ago that Ed didn't have one of those internal alarm clocks. He would sleep all day if someone let him.

He shifted slightly, about to pull up the blanket that was tossed around near his feet, and then realized. _Oh._

With a groan, he sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, before standing and making his way to the door. Rubbing his eyes, he stepped out into the hallway and down the hall to the bathroom.

He didn't notice the strange noises in the near-silent house until he'd already reached the door.

* * *

Catherine was woken by a scream and an inarticulate shout. Sitting bolt upright, she immediately grabbed the gun she still had stored in her bedside table and ran to the door.

That had been Lindsay's scream.

* * *

Ed tried to cover his eyes, fend off attacks, and close the door at the same time, swearing all the while as his ears were assaulted by screams.

"GET OUT! GET OUT! PERVERT!"

"I'm sorry! Sorry!" He tried to get a hold on the door handle, but kept missing because he couldn't really see it. He risked a glance to try and find it.

"STOP LOOKING!"

"I'm _not_!" he shouted back as he finally got a hold of the knob. It was with some relief that he finally closed the door, which slammed with a wall-rattling force as Lindsay shoved it from the other side at the same time. He couldn't help but subconsciously acknowledge that she'd managed to grab a towel from the rack before he'd closed the door, so he didn't accidentally see anything... else.

He abruptly put his flaming face in his hands and groaned. He hadn't _meant_ to go in there while she was... was...

He felt his face heat up even more. Al would have been boxing his ears by now.

"Ed? What in the _world_—"

He groaned again as he heard Catherine's voice. Sparing a tiny glance up at her, he realized she was wearing only a night gown. After what he'd already seen, he was ready to die of embarrassment. But then he blinked as he realized that she was holding a _gun_ up by her shoulder.

"What—?"

Catherine breathed deeply and lowered the gun slightly. "Sorry, I heard screaming and I thought something was wrong. What's happening?"

"I swear I didn't mean to, but I was just going to use the bathroom and—"

"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"

Ed's heart stopped as the door opened behind him and Lindsay stepped out in all her blazingly furious glory. He couldn't help but be relieved that she was properly clothed now, but that relief didn't last very long.

"You are _so dead,_" she hissed as she advanced on him. Ed raised his hands in front of him defensively, thinking that the girl had never resembled Winry quite so much before now.

"I'm sorry, I didn't—"

"You don't just walk in on a girl showering! Pervert!"

"Hey, I didn't mean to—"

Lindsay raised her hands as if to strangle him, and he decided that was the time to run.

"You're the one who left the door unlocked!" he called back in irritated embarrassment—and no small amount of fear for his life—as he darted down the hallway. Lindsay's wrathful snarl followed after him.

"Ever heard of _knocking_, you idiot! I'm going to—"

She then proceeded to explain _exactly _what she would be doing to him when she caught him. Ed felt his red face blanch. Luckily, he'd reached his room and darted inside, slamming the door behind him and flipping the _very_ convenient lock just as something—probably Lindsay's foot—crashed into it.

"GET BACK OUT HERE RIGHT NOW!"

"I'd rather not!" he shouted back, sidling across the room and around the bed.

"I'm gonna—"

"Lindsay!" Catherine's voice was full of what Ed would henceforth dub the "Angry Mother Tone".

"Mom! He walked in on me _in the shower_! He's a—"

"Watch your language!"

"_Mom!_"

Ed did his best to tune out the quickly-growing argument between mother and daughter by crawling into his bed and pulling the blanket over his head. He really didn't want to know how Catherine would react if Lindsay actually managed to sway her over to her side of the argument.

He just hoped that she didn't have a key to the room.

* * *

Catherine couldn't help but laugh quietly as she stepped into the room and saw a lump curled up under the blankets.

"Ed."

The lump twitched, and Ed's tousled blonde hair popped up from under the sheets. His eyes were wide and wary, and he seemed to be avoiding looking at her in her nightdress. "I didn't mean it!" he immediately protested. "The door was unlocked and I was half asleep—"

Catherine laughed for real this time. "I know; don't worry, I've always gotten on Lindsay's case for not locking the door when she doesn't want anyone to come in. She always says it's because it's just me in the house, so why should she?"

Ed blinked. "So you're not mad?"

She shook her head. "No. But Lindsay's still in a tizzy about it."

He bit his lip and looked fearfully around Catherine, as if Lindsay was waiting in the hallway to pounce on him and rip out his throat.

"She's out with some friends for the evening. Cooling off."

The blonde heaved a sigh and relaxed. "Um... sorry for waking you up."

Catherine waved a hand. "No, it's alright. It's not long before I would have been up anyway. Just be careful next time you're up early. She likes to shower right after school."

Ed nodded, before suddenly looking somewhat unsure. "Um..."

She cocked her head, waiting.

"...Can I use the bathroom now?"

Her laugh echoed down the hallway as she headed back to her own room.

* * *

"The DNA's still not a match," Greg said with a grin immediately as he walked through the door.

Grissom gave a small smile. "Now all we need is something to match it to."

Catherine cocked her head to the side from where she was sitting on the edge of the lead CSI's desk. "DNA?"

"We found some epithelials under the latest vic's nails," Greg explained, pleased. "Probably belonging to the perp."

She smiled—perhaps a tad viciously. "Sounds like he's starting to screw up."

"Could be," Greg agreed, placing an envelope on Grissom's desk. "All we can do is wait and see." With that, he made his way out of the office, whistling a jaunty tune.

"He's certainly happy today," Catherine noted with raised brows.

"He has someone to monologue to. Of course he's happy."

"Ed?"

Grissom nodded with a small smile. "They've been thick as thieves since yesterday. Probably something about common interests."

"You mean they're both nerds."

He chuckled. "That's one way to put it."

She smiled back at him. "Speaking of Ed, you wanted to ask me something?"

She watched as he picked up a jar from one of the shelves beside his desk and handed it to her. She gave him an odd look.

"Do you see anything wrong with that?" he asked.

Her brows came together at the apparent non sequitur. "Besides the fact that it's a bug in a jar? Not really."

"No cracks, chips, anything?"

She rolled it in her hands. "Not that I can see," she said, humouring him and knowing that he would eventually tell her what he was getting at.

"So it looks essentially brand new."

She nodded.

"Well," Grissom said, leaning against the desk, "Would you believe me if I said that yesterday, that was shattered across the floor of this office?"

Catherine blinked. "No."

He took the jar from her hands. "Ed knocked it from the shelf yesterday after I'd implied his personal mentor had abused him and his brother." At her quick intake of breath, he raised a hand. "I don't think she did, but I had to be sure. I guess it was a touchy subject for him. In the end, he broke that chair—" he indicated the chair currently leaning against the back corner, which she'd noticed but hadn't bothered to ask about, "—and knocked this onto the floor. It shattered, of course."

She scratched her ear. "But that's not possible. You can't put a glass jar back together."

"Ed can."

She shook her head. "No, I mean that's physically impossible. Are you sure he didn't just get another jar from somewhere when you weren't looking?"

Grissom looked her in the eyes. "Catherine. I'm saying that he put it back together in approximately five seconds when my back was turned."

"But there's no way he could have done that."

"That's what I said." With a sigh, he stood up straight and replaced the jar where it had been before. "Afterwards, he refused to tell me anything, but I managed to get him talking about some other things. Then he started writing this." He held up a sheaf of paper to her, and she took it. As she flipped through, she was baffled by the strange scrawl covered each page from corner to corner.

"What is it?"

"I don't know. Neither do Nick or Greg. I'm tempted to go ask Hodges if he can make anything of it."

Catherine shook her head. "Is Ed some kind of physicist?"

"Actually, he doesn't believe in practising physics."

She gave him a flat look. "Doesn't believe in physics."

He nodded. "He claims it isn't taught where he comes from. He says he's a scientist who works with chemistry and biology."

"But he's sixteen!"

"I don't think we should be judging anything he does by how old he is," Grissom admonished her gently. "He's already proven to be far more mature than others his age."

Catherine looked down at the paper again and had to agree. "So what do we do now?"

"We wait until he wants to tell us something. He's not going to say anything unless we either catch him unawares or he wants to talk. That's why I want you to keep an eye on him."

She pursed her lips. "I already am."

Grissom shook his head with a small smile. "I'm not saying you are; I mean that I want you to watch out for anything strange he does. Anything he says that doesn't quite sound right. Things that appear to be different than they were before."

Catherine blinked. "Like his jacket," she realized.

He nodded. "Like his jacket."

"How do you think he's doing things like that—changing his jacket colour, fixing jars...?"

Grissom shrugged. "I don't know."

She had to admit, the concept that Grissom may have no idea scared her a little.

* * *

**And done. I hope this chapter didn't feel like too much of a filler, but I can never really tell. Things will hopefully start picking up as time goes on. Again, I apologize for the lateness of the chapter. The next one will hopefully be out within the next week or so.**

**By the way—if I hit 1,000 reviews I will probably faint. Then dance. Then do a whole bunch of other potentially embarrassing things.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	19. Trust

**Happy New Year, everyone! Let's hope the world doesn't end this December. ;)**

**Warnings: Lots of people being smart, some angst, nerdiness.**

**Disclaimer:**** Seeing as I haven't done this for a good few chapters, I'll reiterate that I don't own CSI: Las Vegas or Fullmetal Alchemist and any of their permutations. Also, I am not a scientist. My knowledge is derived from the internet and is therefore inherently flawed. Try and understand it at your own risk.**

* * *

Strangely, the next two days passed in relative peace. Ed was surprised by the lack of personal questions directed his way as he followed Greg around and talked about anything and everything. He learned more about microscopic evidence and the things that make up the human body in those two days than in most of the books he'd read throughout his life, including those owned by Shou Tucker. The idea that the people in Amestris had _no concept_ of DNA or the tiniest processes of the body was mind-boggling; at one point, Ed actually found himself wondering if people from his side of the Gate even had such things, until Greg spontaneously decided to show him the DNA analysis he'd done on Ed's own sample that Grissom had taken on his first day here.

"So what do these mean?" he'd asked curiously, staring at the bars adorning a printed sheet.

"Those are STR bands formed with the PCR primers I told you about earlier. They basically 'read' your DNA and display repeats in the sequence that are used to create your physical characteristics. You get half from your mother and half from your father. We match up evidence and also confirm paternity and maternity disputes with them."

"So if you had someone's DNA, you could figure out who their parents are?"

"Essentially," Greg had replied, a pleased smile on his face.

Ed couldn't help but feel excited. Greg had been all for sending him home with a number of books on the origins of life and studies done on genetics. Ed found them both fascinating and daunting—how had people in his world missed all this?

He had spent more than one night wondering how different his life would have been if he'd known about these sorts of concepts. Would the transmutation to bring back Mom have worked if he and Al had known how DNA worked? How cells aged and died? Greg had explained the process of cloning to him on the second day; would something along those lines have worked better? Would this kind of knowledge have spared them all of the hardships they'd faced in the last five years?

But he knew that such thinking was impossible to justify, because it had already happened and there was no way to go back and fix it. Though that didn't stop him from wishing he could.

As he learned things from Greg, he couldn't help but share some of his own knowledge. Greg's reaction when Ed explained his already thorough understanding of the human body and its processes was nearly as amusing as when Nick had stolen his music player and put Classical music in it—something that Ed actually appreciated, as opposed to the "rock" music that Greg insisted on playing without pause throughout the day (or night, as the case may be).

"The human body's made up of 75% water—"

"Thirty five litres," Ed murmured. "Twenty kilograms of carbon. Four litres of ammonia. One point five kilograms of lime. Eight hundred grams of phosphorous. Two hundred fifty grams of salt. One hundred grams of saltpetre. Eighty grams of sulphur. Seven point five grams of fluorine, five grams of iron, three grams of silicon... and trace amounts of fifteen other elements." As soon as the words finished leaving his mouth, he blinked, before realizing that Greg was staring at him. It had been an automatic reaction, really. He and Al had spent so many hours calculating and memorizing the components of the human body that the values were practically imprinted on his brain, ready to be released at any moment. Apparently being around Greg for a few days had made that part of his mind more prone to spontaneous word vomit.

Or maybe he was feeling just a little put out by the fact that everything Greg was showing him made his own research look like child's play.

Greg had stared for a full minute. "That... was kind of creepy," he blurted, before shaking his head and smiling ruefully. "But in a good way. Where did you learn that? I've never heard someone actually memorize the components of a human body. Well, besides Grissom, probably," he amended, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

Ed quirked a sideways smile. "It's something I taught myself. My father—" here he grimaced for a moment, before continuing, "—he had a lot of anatomy and biology books. My brother and I read them when we were little. We used to joke about how a human body could be made from elements that could be bought at a local supermarket on a child's budget."

Greg's brow furrowed. "That's an idea I've never heard before..."

Ed shrugged. "Humans are made cheap."

The Trace expert had given him a strange look, part skeptical and part... something almost sad that Ed couldn't identify. But he hadn't said anything more on the subject.

* * *

The lack of questions from Grissom in those two days was almost as nerve-racking as it was welcome; Ed couldn't help but think that the CSI was biding his time, waiting for the perfect moment to corner Ed when there wouldn't be any more distractions and forcibly extract answers from him. Every time he passed Grissom's office, the man would give him a friendly smile and a hello, with that glint in his eye that said he knew more than he was letting on. But Ed couldn't be sure what it was that Grissom thought he knew, or how much his actions had inadvertently given away his secrets.

It was driving him _insane._

"Hey, Ed."

He blinked and looked up from the sandwich he was currently eating—courtesy of Catherine; the woman had taken to feeding him every three hours or so, packing a lunch in the break room fridge and insisting that he eat it whenever he felt like it. Greg had left him in the room while he went to give something to Warrick, with Ed's promise that he wouldn't go anywhere unless the lab was burning down or Catherine told him to.

Doc Robbins stood in the doorway, a large metal case in his hands and a bag slung over his shoulder.

"Hiya, Doc," Ed replied with a quirky smile and a mock two-fingered salute.

Doc smiled as he stepped into the room and put his burdens down on the table. Ed noticed that there was a strange lilt in his step, as though he couldn't bend his knees quite right. His cane was tucked under his arm, and once he was relieved of the case and bag, he pulled it out and thumped it on the floor.

"I've got what you need to work on my legs," he said without preamble.

Ed cocked his head to one side and stood up, stuffing the last of his sandwich in his mouth, and moved to examine the contents of the case as Doc flipped open the latches. His prosthetic legs lay in black moulded foam rests inside it.

"I've got my spares on right now. They'll work for a day or two, but I'll need these ones back by Friday at the latest."

Ed swallowed the sandwich and nodded. "I can probably work on these tomorrow. What's in the bag?"

"The supplies you asked for. I found some good aluminum that didn't look too beat up, and graphite powder from a body shop downtown. There's some silicon spray in there, too; I didn't know if it'd be useful, but you never know."

Ed was already riffling through the bag, measuring in his head the amounts he'd need. "That sounds good. Looks like there's enough here to work with." He looked up at Doc. "I could probably see if Catherine would let me stay behind tomorrow so I can have a look at these as soon as possible."

Doc nodded, then pulled out a sheet of paper. Ed cocked his head to the side.

"It's not that I don't trust you, but I think some reassurance is always worth it." He held out the sheet.

Ed took it and snorted as he read.

_I, Edward Elric, do pledge to do my best to improve the prostheses of one Doc Robbins, with the sole intention of making his life somewhat easier. I will not steal his legs out from under him, and if I cannot fix whatever I end up breaking, I will repay whatever I owe him for them. If I don't, I will rot in the fiery pits of Hell and spend the rest of my God-given life in prison._

With a chuckle, he signed and dated the bottom of the sheet with the pen Doc handed him. "Is this the kinds of official documents you people have?"

Doc chuckled as he rolled up the sheet. "No. I just wanted it for my own personal vindication."

Ed rolled his eyes. "Well, as long as you're not going to try and use it to gain my unflinching loyalty in the future." He suddenly eyed the sheet. "There's no fine print on there, is there? Because I really don't want to have signed away my soul again."

The old man shook his head, mirth in his eyes. "No, nothing like that. I don't deal in the souls of teenagers. They're more trouble than they're worth."

With a shared laugh, the two shook hands.

* * *

Five minutes later, Doc Robbins walked into Grissom's office and tossed the contract onto the other man's desk.

"Got a handwriting sample just for you," he said with a satisfied smile. "Figured some Latin scribbles in the middle of a bunch of numbers wouldn't work quite well enough."

Grissom could only blink as the mortician left without another word.

* * *

"What's in the bag?" Catherine asked as soon as she saw what Ed was hauling around when he came to her office at the end of the shift.

"Stuff to improve Doc's legs with," he answered, propping the metal case against a chair and flopping down into it, plopping the back on the floor on the other side.

She raised an eyebrow. "You're improving his prostheses?"

He nodded, blowing his bangs aside. "Yeah. We talked about it a few days ago, and he agreed to let me have a look at them and see if I could do anything to make them easier to use. I have a lot of experience with this kind of thing, you know?" He held up his right hand and tapped the fingers together.

"He's trusting you with his prostheses?"

The teen shrugged. "I guess he knows I don't really have a use for them besides academic interest."

"So where are you planning no working on those?"

"Well, I was hoping I could bring them back to your place with me and give them a look over tomorrow. Maybe stay there while you come here for your shift."

Catherine rubbed her chin and eyed the blonde. This was an unexpected request, but she couldn't say that she immediately rejected the possibility. After all, Ed had been coming with her to the lab for almost a week running, and he hadn't complained even once over the strange schedule or the fact that he had to entirely change his sleep patterns to accommodate the graveyard shift. She watched him for a moment, trying to determine if he had some kind of ulterior motive with wanting to stay behind for a night.

There was a possibility that it wouldn't be safe to leave him there, but she doubted it. Her presence, she felt, wasn't truly a deterrent for anyone who wanted to harm Ed. Either the killer didn't know where Ed was staying, or he had some kind of plan that didn't involve doing anything at her house.

At least, that's what she hoped.

_Not helpful thinking_, she berated herself silently. _Grissom would know better._

And Lindsay would be home with him... She knew that her daughter wouldn't be going out late, because she had school the next day. But would leaving the two of them home alone together be a good idea...?

She snorted quietly, earning a strange look from Ed. Lindsay had been avoiding any kind of contact with Ed the last few days, preferring instead to glare at him over her plate at meals and whenever they happened to pass each other in the hallway. It was unlikely she would even talk to him if she left just the two of them at home.

With a shrug, she stood. "I don't really see any problem with that, but I think we should talk to Grissom about it."

Ed stood with her and followed her out of the room after she packed up her bag, the prosthetic case and bag firmly in his hands.

Grissom didn't seem to have any problem with it; after confirming that Catherine had effective locks at her house and that Ed knew the lab's emergency call number, he agreed that letting the teen stay home was perfectly acceptable.

Before they left, the lead CSI fixed Ed with a sharp stare. "I trust you to stay at the house, though," he warned sternly. "You know what happened last time you left somewhere on your own. And I can't guarantee Ecklie won't have you in more than just a holding cell if things get out of hand."

Ed scowled slightly. "I'm not an idiot," he muttered, a dark look on his face as he crossed his arms over his chest. Catherine couldn't tell if he was offended by the notion that he would disobey, or by the blatantly stern tone in Grissom's voice that was fraught with an unspoken warning that if Ed really _did _go somewhere, the CSI wouldn't hesitate to have him found and hauled back to the station like an errant child. "I won't go anywhere."

* * *

"There's food in the fridge if you need anything. My cell number's on the counter. Don't open the door unless it's me or one of the other CSIs, and _don't_ aggravate Lindsay."

"Yeah, I know."

Catherine eyed the teenager leaning casually against the kitchen counter as he waved his hand dismissively. "I mean it. If you bother her again, I can't guarantee that she won't do something permanently disfiguring to that little blond head of yours."

Ed sighed, blowing the bangs out of his face. "I won't go near her," he assured the woman quickly. He'd heard the shouting match that Catherine and her daughter had had earlier that morning, when they'd gotten back from the lab. Needless to say, the young woman had been a little more than unhappy that Ed would be staying home without Catherine around. She seemed to think that he would sneak into her room and do all sorts of evil things to her as she slept.

Ed shuddered. He valued his life a little too much to do _anything_ of the sort.

Catherine had been more than quick to point out that Lindsay also had a lock on her door, and Ed didn't know where the key was for it. That had seemed to appease the girl somewhat, but Ed still had the feeling that if he ran into her while her mother was away, there would be bloodshed. And probably not hers.

"Good," Catherine said, before grabbing her car keys from the hook beside the kitchen doorway. "Try not to burn the house down." Ed was startled by the implications in that statement, and he looked up sharply. But Catherine's eyes were sparkling teasingly, so he relaxed. She didn't know anything. "I'll be back around seven. Don't forget to lock the door." With that, she stepped out the door and closed it firmly behind her. Ed didn't hear the car start until after he'd flipped the lock—she'd probably been waiting outside the door to make sure he did so.

With a sigh of relief, he immediately made his way to his room, carefully tiptoeing past Lindsay's door despite the fact that loud music was pouring out from under it. He locked his own bedroom door after closing it and pulled out the case Doc had given him.

Opening it on his bed, he pulled out one of the prosthetic legs and placed it on the floor beside the bag of scrap metal. Taking a seat in front of it, he dumped out the bag on the small plastic sheet Catherine had lent him after she'd seen what he was proposing to put on her carpet.

Removing his gloves and sifting through the pieces, he sorted them by type. There were a few pieces of stainless steel that he placed off to the side; he wouldn't use them unless he needed to. The aluminum scraps dominated the middle of the sheet, and he set the small pieces of carbon fibre, graphite, and silicon to the side for later.

Picking up the prosthetic, he bent the knee joint experimentally and observed the motion of the ball-joint that connected the upper part to the lower part. Carefully, he pulled off the plastic cover over the knee and prodded at the joint within.

Crude. It wasn't designed for any kind of free movement. The ball joint was practically immobile due to its age; Ed had no doubt that Doc kept it in the best shape possible, but there was little he could do to stop the usual wear and fix the flaws already inherent in the design. It was made for minor adjustments forward and backwards, but there was no give in either sideways direction, nor any forgiveness when it came to twisting or compression.

Ed sighed and placed the partially disassembled leg on his lap. Maybe it came from living with an automail engineer for as long as he had, or maybe it was merely the fact that he had prosthetics himself, but the design of this leg made him wonder exactly how much these prosthetic 'experts' were being paid to come up with these things. Granted, Doc had said that the model was one of the cheapest, but that still didn't forgive the gross flaws in the basic design. Even the cheapest automail came with the basic features that made life easier, such as general mobility and give in the structure. He would bet his entire research stipend that one good twist in the wrong direction would render the leg entirely non-operational.

Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath and began to examine the leg again. He had to improve this without being overly obvious; whatever he did had to fall within the realms of possibility when it came to what everyone thought he could do. What he would _really _love to do would be to entirely overhaul the design and make it something bordering on automail, without the nerve attachments; but that would just bring unwanted attention to what Grissom was already starting to get suspicious about. No, he had to make this _believable_, and still help Doc.

He closed his eyes again, constructing a three dimensional model of the prosthetic in his mind's eye. Breathing in the way that Teacher had taught him, he focused his thoughts inwards and let his mind drift through possibilities, trying to form a plausible method of improvement. Abruptly, he hit on an idea.

_That... might actually work..._

He began to construct the additions in his mind's eye, fitting them to the prosthetic model. Yes... that would probably do. It would take a little bit more work to make it look manual instead of alchemical, but it was worth a try. He could always fix it afterwards.

With a sharp nod to himself, he opened his eyes, fingers already moving to divest the prosthetic of the rest of its plastic casing.

He was startled from his work when a knock sounded on his door. Warily, he set down the prosthetic and stood, eyes on the door as he brought his hands closer together and stepped towards it.

"Who's there?" he asked warily.

"I need to talk to you."

He blinked in shock. That was Lindsay's voice. Carefully, he opened the door a crack and peered out into the hallway. The young woman stood on the other side, hands on hips and a dark look in her eyes that Ed couldn't quite identify.

He couldn't help the foreboding chill that ran down his spine as those eyes narrowed and she pushed the door open further.

* * *

Catherine tried her best not to be sick.

She felt Grissom's hand on her back as she looked away from the sight in front of her, fighting back tears that had suddenly sprung into her eyes.

"You alright?" the older man asked in concerned sympathy, his hand rubbing soothing circles on her back.

She did her best to nod, and drew a steadying breath before turning to look at her superior. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm okay."

"I can have Warrick take this one. He's just a call away."

She shook her head, closing her eyes for a second. "No, I'm fine."

"He's a sick bastard, that's all I can say," Nick muttered darkly from behind her.

Catherine opened her eyes and looked down at the scene before her again.

A girl—probably no older than sixteen—lay in the ditch before them, dressed in a costume that no one could mistake for anything but that of a stripper. Her blonde hair had been sheared off and scattered around her, and multiple stab wounds across her chest indicated exactly how she had died. Her hazel eyes, covered in glittering mascara that twinkled in the glow of their flashlights, stared unseeing up into the dark Nevada night, locked onto something that only she could see.

Catherine could have passed off the similarities as a simple coincidence—after all, it had been years since she'd had anything to do with the stripping scene, and the killer seemed to be going after girls and young women with those basic traits anyway—if it hadn't been for the driver's license held in her trembling hand.

_Lindsay Anne Barlow_

_Under 18 until: April 3, 2009_

She closed her eyes again, unable to look at the name any longer. Grissom's hand moved to grip her shoulder.

"It's not her, Cath," he reassured. She nodded; she already knew that. If it had actually been her daughter, she would have already been throwing up whatever she'd had for breakfast that evening.

But the similarities were disturbing enough.

"How... how does he know?" she asked quietly, doing her best not to let her voice shake.

"The same way he knew about Nicky's kidnapping," Grissom offered, turning her to look in his eyes. "Lindsay is safe, Catherine. She's at home with Ed and they're fine."

She nodded, knowing he was right. But the scene had shaken her badly. How had the killer known? How had he figured out the exact thing that would affect her most? He couldn't possibly know what Lindsay looked like... Or that she had tried to get a job as a stripper downtown a year ago. Only Sam, her father, had known about that, and her CSI team. There was just _no way_...

But he'd known about Nick's kidnapping. He'd known about the evidence they had on file about the case. He'd known about Ed and had even been able to poison him in the middle of a crowd when not even the CSIs knew where he was.

The sick feeling in her stomach grew until she couldn't fight it any longer, and she dashed around the side of Grissom's SUV and threw up on the other side.

She felt Nick's hand holding back her hair as Grissom took the girl's license from her hand. Both of them were murmuring comforting reassurances under their breath, but she couldn't concentrate on them. Her mind kept looping through all the things that the killer knew, all the things he could do when he knew as much as he did.

"I need to... need to call Lindsay," she said suddenly. She had to hear her daughter's voice. Before she could even stand, a cell phone was being thrust into her hand, and her fingers were already dialing her home number.

Her heart pounded as the phone rang once... twice... three times... Her breathing was starting to pick up as it rang. Lindsay was probably just in the bathroom, or asleep—it was almost midnight, she would be in bed, right? But what if she wasn't? What if she wasn't home and something had happened to her and—

"Hello?"

She felt the breath leave her in a sudden rush as her daughter's voice sounded in her ear. "Lindsay?"

"Mom? What's up?"

"Are you... Are you alright?"

She could picture Lindsay's raised eyebrow through the phone. "Uh... yeah? Why are you calling?"

Catherine let herself breathe for a second. In... out... in... out. Lindsay was safe. Nothing was wrong. "I just... wanted to make sure everything was okay. How's Ed?"

She sensed the rolled eyes. "He's locked himself in his room and I really don't want to know what he's doing in there."

She couldn't help but chuckle slightly. "He's working on a project for Doc, that's all."

"If you say so. Anyway, is there anything else you wanted?"

"No, just wanted to check in."

"Alright then, I'm going to bed."

"Sounds good. And... Linds?"

"Yeah?"

"I love you."

There was a slightly awkward pause before Lindsay mumbled back, "I love you, too," and hung up the phone.

Catherine sighed in relief, feeling a lot of the tension leave her shoulders as she closed the cell phone and handed it back to Grissom. "She's okay." She stood slowly, running a hand over her face. "She's okay," she repeated, as though trying to reassure herself more than anyone else.

"You ready to finish this?" Nick asked, clapping a hand on her shoulder and giving it a little squeeze in empathy.

She smiled back at him a little shakily. "Yeah, I think so." With a slightly smaller knot in her stomach, she stepped around the SUV and snatched her CSI kit from where it rested against the back bumper. Now that her worry was mostly assuaged, she could feel dark anger rising up in her chest. "Let's see if there's anything we can catch this bastard with."

* * *

The fourth time she glanced at the clock to see that only five more minutes had passed, Grissom shook his head and put a hand on her arm. "You can go early, if you need to, Cath."

She shook her head with a grimace, flipping through a few more pages in the file that Nick had found on Lindsay Barlow. "No, we have to figure out when she went missing."

Grissom gave her a small smile. "We already know that. We found the report ten minutes ago."

Catherine blinked and looked down at the files in her hands. "We... did?"

"I mentioned it when Sara came in. She didn't show up at work yesterday."

She rubbed her eyes. "Then... There's probably video surveillance, we can call her workplace and get it from them." She started flicking through the files again, looking for the work certificate she'd spotted earlier.

Grissom's hand came down on the file before she could flip another page over. "Catherine. I know you're worried about Lindsay."

She shook her head. "I'm not; she's fine. We need to see what we can find now. Greg's probably going to pick something up with Trace soon—"

"And he can do that without you here." Seeing the somewhat hurt look she gained then, he amended, "You're distracted. You already missed what I found earlier. I know you're still worried anyway, and I don't fault you for that. You've worked hard enough to earn a few hours off. Go and be with your daughter."

"But she's sleeping, there's no point, I'll be more use here—"

"Catherine," he cut her off as she glanced at the clock again. "Go home. I'll see you tomorrow."

Realizing that she wasn't going to beat him on this one, she sighed. "Fine. Just... If you find anything important, will you call me? Please?"

Grissom smiled. "I wouldn't dream of leaving you out."

She nodded, breathing deeply. "Okay. Okay, I'll... I'll be back later, alright?"

"Just show up for your next shift and I'll be happy."

As she pulled onto the highway, she couldn't help but feel a little bit of relief. Despite what she'd told Grissom, she was anxious to see her daughter, if only just to give her a hug and tell her again that she loved her. The situation reminded her strongly of the rape of a little girl several years ago, when she'd had to go home to reassure herself that Lindsay was alright. She'd only been around six then, but the feeling was the same now. It probably had something to do with being a mother.

Pulling into the driveway of her house, she glanced at the clock again. 3:18 a.m. Lindsay would definitely be asleep still, though Ed would probably be up because he was still on the same sleeping patterns as she was. She could probably glance in on Lindsay, say hi to Ed, and read a book or two. Maybe she'd put together a nice breakfast for them both in a few hours, before her daughter went off to school.

Unlocking the front door—she was glad Ed had listened and kept it locked—she stepped quietly in the house, doing her best not to make noise and wake anyone. Setting her keys on the hall table, she slipped off her shoes and stepped through the kitchen and down the hallway.

Just outside of Ed's room, she paused. Ear to the door, she listened carefully, but couldn't hear anything through it. _He must have gone to sleep after all,_ she decided. Not wanting to wake a slumbering teenager, she moved on to Lindsay's room. No sound came through her door, either, so Catherine didn't knock as she turned the knob.

She'd expected it to be locked, but the handle turned smoothly in her hand. Brows furrowed, she pushed the door open and glanced inside.

It took her eyes a second to adjust to the darkness in the room, but once they did, her heart stopped.

There was no on in the bed.

Stepping fully into the room, she turned on the light and looked around the room. The blankets of Lindsay's bed were still made, as though it hadn't been slept in at all. There were a few textbooks scattered across the floor, in the way that Lindsay usually liked completing her homework. A shirt was tossed over the back of a chair, and a glass of orange juice stood half-full on the floor beside the desk.

But Lindsay was nowhere to be seen.

Panic rising in her chest, Catherine dashed out of the room and down the hall to the bathroom.

The door was open and the light was off. No one was inside.

Uncaring now of waking someone, she pulled open Ed's door and flicked on the light.

There was a pile of metal scraps on the plastic sheet on the floor and Doc's legs were either resting in the open case on the unmade bed or on the floor. But Ed wasn't there.

Her breath was coming in fast gasps, panic rising high enough to choke her. She could barely keep her feet under her as she ran downstairs, calling Lindsay and Ed's names, hoping against hope that she'd hear a response.

The basement was empty.

Her hands shook as she pulled out her cell phone.

"Hello?"

"Grissom, they're gone!"

"What?"

"Lindsay and Ed! They're not here and I don't know where they went—"

"Catherine, take a deep breath and tell me what happened."

"I don't know, I... I got home and their rooms are empty and all the lights are off."

"Any sign of forced entry?"

"No, the door was locked, but their rooms were open—"

"Hold on. I'll be right there." She heard him call Brass, and the sound of quickly moving feet. "Turn on all the lights and make sure someone's not still there."

"Grissom, my daughter is missing! We have to find her _now_—"

"We have to follow the evidence, Catherine. We have no idea where she might be. Just wait there and we'll be there in ten minutes." There was the sound of car door closing and an engine starting.

"I can't just—"

Her heart stopped as a crash sounded from the back door.

* * *

**I'd like to thank IzzyGirl45 for giving this chapter a once-over with her beta-gun to try and find some of the small flaws that usually inundate my writing. Hopefully the chapter is better for it!**

**The arrival of the next update is pending; it's a chapter that may not need a lot of work, but I think it strays a bit from the feel I'm going for and so needs to be fixed. Also, I may be recovering from being dead after BBC Sherlock on Sunday. Please send your best wishes so I may make a speedy comeback after crying my heart out due to Reichenbach Falls and all that it will potentially entail. **

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	20. A Unique Version of Torture

**Sorry for the delay and the length, I've been very busy and am now quite ill. Hopefully this chapter is up to par, and isn't quite what you expected!**

**Warnings: Allusions to somewhat risqué activities**

* * *

Lindsay shoved her way into his room. He didn't stop her—not for lack of ability, but more out of shock that she was actually willingly talking to him. It took him a second to shake himself out of his stupor, in which time Lindsay was already picking up the prosthetic leg that was still in the case and bouncing it in her hand. "What's this for? Mom said you were working on something for someone at the lab."

Ed scowled and snatched the leg from her hand. "It's none of your business."

Lindsay raised her eyebrows at him and crossed her arms. "What, is it illegal?"

"_No_, it just doesn't have anything to do with you. I'm doing someone a favour."

"By stealing their prosthetic legs?"

Ed rolled his eyes and put the leg back in the case, closing it firmly. "I didn't _steal_ them. I'm _improving _them."

"Riiiiight. Like you have the know-how to do something like that."

He glared at her. "Well, unlike _you_, I do have some intelligence."

She glared right back and crossed her arms over her chest. "Just a regular little genius, aren't you?"

He threw his hands in the air. "What do you _want_? Did you just come here to bother me, or did you actually have a reason?"

Lindsay flipped her hair over her shoulder, and Ed suddenly realized that she was dressed in a rather form-fitting, low-cut dress that fell tightly across her body to about mid-thigh; tall heels that Ed couldn't imagine _anyone_ walking in were strapped to her feet. To his annoyance, those heels gave her a full foot of height on him.

"What are you doing, going to a party or something?" he demanded, trying not to blush at the obviously very risqué outfit.

"I'm going out with some friends."

"And you're telling me this _why_?"

She pursed her lips. "Because I want you to come with me."

He stopped and looked at her with his patented 'um... what?' stare that suggested she was speaking gibberish and should probably translate for him. She gave an impatient huff.

"You owe me for the shower thing—" Ed made a noise of annoyance and she glared him into silence, "—and I think that you could pay me back by coming."

Ed stared at her. "So... let me get this straight. You want me," he gestured at himself, "to go with _you_," he gestured at Lindsay, "and your friends to a party as payment for accidentally walking in on you in the bathroom?"

She nodded imperiously.

"Are you serious?" He really didn't understand girls. He _really_ didn't. "How is that payment?"

Lindsay huffed and ran a hand through her hair. "It's not like I want you there for your oh-so-amazing company," she sniffed, glaring. Ed threw up his hands, but before he could express his irritated confusion, she continued. "But I need someone to pose as my boyfriend because I really hate getting hit on at the bar."

Ed felt like he'd been punched in the face. "What the _hell_?"

She groaned angrily. "I don't want strange guys to start hitting on me and none of my friends are guys, idiot!"

He sat down on the bed, putting his head in his hands. "You're going to a _bar_? Aren't you a little young?" he asked in bewildered annoyance, before looking up. "Aren't _I _a little young?" He knew for a fact that his title as a State Alchemist was the only reason he'd ever been allowed into bars in Amestris, and he highly doubted that his pocket watch held any weight here.

Lindsay rolled her eyes. "You don't know anything, do you?" With another huff, she leaned against his desk. "There are places that don't ID you in Vegas. And you wouldn't be ID'd anyway, even if you're a total shrimp."

Ed's eyes narrowed dangerously. "Who are you calling a mote of dust under a mouse's nest?" he growled.

She rolled her eyes again. "You look mature enough even if you're short. But it's not like it matters, I can get us in anyway."

He sighed and put his hands on his knees, looking at the girl seriously. "So you want to go to a _bar_ with all of your little girlfriends, even when you're all underage, and have me pose as your _boyfriend_ so that no one hits on you."

"Basically," Lindsay agreed with a smirk.

"No."

Her smirk morphed into a glare. "What?"

"Absolutely not. That's got to be one of the stupidest ideas I have ever heard, and I've heard a lot. Hell, I've come up with a few myself."

Lindsay stood straight and clenched her teeth. "You can't just say no like that. You _have _to come."

He raised an eyebrow skeptically. "No, actually, I don't. I can just stay here like your mother told me to and work on what I've already promised someone else I'd finish."

Her fists were clenched at her sides, and Ed could make out a strange sort of desperation in her eyes. "But... but you can't just make me go alone!"

Ed shrugged, unconcerned. "Then you don't have to go."

"You owe me! You have to!"

He gave her a look of pure contempt. "If you think that I'm going to get Catherine mad at me because you wanted to act like a rebellious little girl, you've got another thing coming. I like my head just where it is, thanks."

Lindsay stomped her foot and gave a little snarl of anger. "She'll get mad at _me _if I go alone!"

Ed raised his eyebrows. "Oh, so _that's_ why you want me along. So I can take the blame off of you."

The young woman's face flushed as she glared at him. "You know what? Fine. I'll go alone. Just me and a group of girls, going to a bar all by ourselves and probably getting raped and murdered because we couldn't defend ourselves. You know, perfectly acceptable things like that!" With that proclamation, she stomped out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Ed stared after her, dread suddenly rising in his stomach. He shoved it down.

_She's just acting like a child_, he told himself. _She's not actually going to go if I'm not coming. Anyway, even if she does, it's not my problem. I told her not to._

He heard Lindsay's heels stomp down the hallway, and a few minutes later they stomped back, past his room towards the kitchen.

"I'm leaving now!" she shouted back down the hall, and Ed felt another squeeze on his heart.

_No, she's going and it's her choice. She'll be with her friends and there's nothing wrong with that. She'll be fine._

Unbidden, an image of Catherine rose in his mind, standing with hands on her hips and anger twisting her features as she shouted at Ed for letting Lindsay leave.

Following directly on the heels of that was the thought that... there was a killer out there.

And from what Greg had told him in the past few days, that killer was targeting young women. Young, blond women.

He was already half way down the hall before that thought was finished.

"I'm coming with you," he said curtly as he grabbed his jacket from the hook by the door. Lindsay, who was just opening the door, looked back at him and rolled her eyes.

He tried to pretend that the satisfied smirk on her face was just his imagination.

A car was pulled up in the driveway and, after locking the door behind them, Lindsay ran down to the driver's side window. A brunette leaned out the window as Lindsay whispered in her ear. They both looked over at Ed, who was stepping warily down the front walk, and giggled.

It was the giggling that really freaked him out, and the way the brunette girl's eyes travelled up and down his form before giving a huge smile and raising an eyebrow at Lindsay.

The blond girl merely rolled her eyes and pulled open the back driver's side door, motioning impatiently for Ed to get in. With some trepidation, he slid into the vehicle. Lindsay followed him in and closed the door, and Ed found himself wedged between her and a girl whose hair looked like it had been leeched of all colour until it was stark white, then streaked with bright pink. The girl—who Ed decided to dub 'Pinky'—gave him a slightly lecherous smile, which he warily tried to return, but probably ended up looking more like he wore a grimace of distaste.

The car started, and music began to blare out of the speakers. Ed twitched as the first lyrics he heard were _'I wanna take a ride on your disco stick!'_ Quickly, he did his best to tune it out; wherever the people here got their music, it was definitely _not_ from anyplace worthwhile.

As they pulled out of the driveway, the girl in the passenger seat turned around and eyed him. She had huge blue eyes and blond hair cut to her earlobes. "Who's your friend, Linds?"

He felt Lindsay shrug. "His name's Ed. He's been staying over for about a week now. Something to do with a case my mom's working on."

The other three girls all hummed in a strange way that made Ed feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"A week?" Blue-eyes smirked and waggled her eyebrows at Lindsay. "Do tell."

"Nothing's happened," Lindsay muttered.

Pinky leaned against Ed's shoulder and put a hand on his knee. "Oh come on, Linds. You can't tell me that you've had him at your house all this time and haven't done anything at all?"

Lindsay rolled her eyes, and Ed carefully extracted his knee from under Pinky's hand. He wasn't sure which of them was redder.

The brunette in the driver's seat looked back at them in the rear-view mirror. "Ah, looks like something _did _happen after all!" she giggled as she saw their brilliant blushes. "Come on, Lindsay, spill it."

"Did you kiss him?"

"Attack him while he slept?"

"Or was it the other way around?"

Ed was really starting to regret coming along as the girls began to spout more and more ridiculous scenarios that would have had even Havoc blushing like a schoolgirl. His face was blazing red.

"It was nothing!" Lindsay finally insisted, running an agitated hand through her hair. "He just... he walked in on me in the shower, okay?"

There was silence in the car for a split second, except for the music, and then suddenly all three girls were catcalling and eyeing Ed with a strange glint in their eyes.

"So he's one of _those_, is he?"

"Careful, Linds, you'd better make sure you lock your door at night."

"You sure you want him here tonight after all? He might have some date rape drug with him."

Ed covered his face with his hands as he groaned, and all four girls laughed, though Lindsay's was slightly more embarrassed than the other girls'.

"Look at how red he's getting!"

"That's so cute! Look at his ears!"

"Aw, ladies, don't keep poking fun, he'll never want to come out with us again!"

"Come on, Eddy, don't be ashamed, who wouldn't want a peek at a girl once in awhile?"

As the car made its way down the highway, Ed truly wondered where his sanity had gone when he'd agreed to come along on this outing.

_Serial killer. Right. Remember the serial killer._

As the seconds ticked by, that reason was starting to feel feebler and feebler in the face of this unique version of torture.

* * *

Despite everything that was just _wrong _with this whole situation, Ed hadn't been expecting something like this.

He growled as another girl 'accidentally' bumped into him, her giggle driving into his brain over the pounding music that was already giving him a headache and her eyelashes fluttering as she gave him a once-over.

"Hey there, cutie," she purred, her breath reeking of alcohol, "wanna come over to my place tonight?"

The blatant proposition would have left him sputtering, if he hadn't already turned down two other such offers—one much less coherent than the other—in the past hour. "No thanks," he muttered, his voice just barely audible over the music.

"Aw, come on, we could have some _fuuun_, get to know each other a bit..." She wiggled her hips suggestively, and Ed immediately turned away in disgusted embarrassment, only to run into a couple that were grinding quite spectacularly in the middle of the dance floor. Averting his eyes, he quickly shoved his way out of the crowd to the table that Lindsay and her friends had procured at the beginning of the night.

"Yo, Eddy!" Blue-eyes slurred as he sat down. "Whatcha up to?" She eyed him in the flashing lights of the club.

"Where's Lindsay?" he abruptly demanded. "I think we should leave."

Blue-eyes (Lindsay had told him her name sometime earlier, but he hadn't bothered to remember it) leaned over and wrapped her arms around his. He couldn't help but feel slightly grateful that it was his flesh arm, because she probably would have freaked out otherwise. Then again, she may not have even noticed his automail in her currently inebriated state.

"Awwww, Eddy, you can't leave!" she whined. "The party's just getting started! C'mon, stay a little while."

Ed tried to pull his arm out of her grasp, but she was apparently a rather strong drunk and he didn't want to hurt her. Resigned, he sighed and leaned back. Blue-eyes snatched up her glass of electric blue liquid and tossed it back before giggling and snuggling into his side.

A few minutes later, in which the blond girl somehow managed to end up halfway onto his lap with her head on his shoulder and her hand playing with his braid, the brunette—whom Ed had dubbed The Driver—slid into the booth on his other side.

"Enjoying yourself?" she asked casually, her eyes unnaturally bright with alcohol as she eyed Blue-eyes, who was trying and failing to undo the tie at the end of Ed's braid.

"No, not really," Ed said bluntly, pulling the braid out of Blue-eyes' grasp. "Where's Lindsay?"

The Driver rolled her eyes. "She's over at the bar getting another daiquiri." Her brown eyes fixed on Ed's face as she pursed her lips. "You sure you and her don't have a thing?"

Ed blew his bangs out of his face—though that seemed to attract Blue-eyes' attention to them, as her fingers immediately began running through them. The girls had all been trying to attract some kind of confession of a 'relationship' with Lindsay from him all evening. Besides the fact that there was no such relationship—if anything, he figured it was the exact opposite of a relationship—it was frankly getting annoying.

Before he could protest again that _no_, he and Lindsay were anything _but _attached in any way, Pinky sauntered up and leaned against the table, before promptly half-lying on it and nearly knocking over a number of near-empty glasses.

"Hiya, Eddy," she slurred in what she obviously thought was a sexy way, but ended up sounding more like she was having difficulty breathing. "Having fun?"

"No," he said bluntly, before slapping Blue-eyes' hand away. Lindsay, who'd followed close behind Pinky, slid into the booth across from Ed. He immediately turned to her. "Are you done yet?"

Lindsay's face was flushed with alcohol as she rolled her eyes at him. "Come _on_, the night's just starting and you want to leave?"

"Yes."

"Well you're just no fun at _all_, are you?" she groused, kicking him under the table with a giggle. "Geez, enjoy yourself a little."

"You're so stiff, Eddy," The Driver said suddenly, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Live a little. You're only sixteen once!" Her face was unnaturally close to his, and he tried to pull away, only to have Blue-eyes lean against him from the other side. Abruptly, he felt rather trapped.

"Alright, I'm leaving," he said, elbowing Blue-eyes gently away from him and clamouring over the table to get out. Pinky grabbed his arms just as he was stepping back onto the ground.

"Eddy! You can't leave us here all _aloooone_! What if something happens to poor little ol' me?" She gave him a pout that probably would have been more effective if she hadn't accompanied it with wide, make-up laden eyes and a slight stagger as she stood. Irritation suddenly welled up in his chest.

"Well then, I guess you're just going to have to come with me, won't you?" he snapped, before groaning as he realized exactly how that had sounded.

Apparently the girls had too, because all of them burst into giggles and drunken catcalls.

"What I _meant_," he corrected, "was that if you don't want to stay here by yourselves, then you're just going to have to leave early, too."

That also didn't seem like the right wording, apparently, because their giggles only increased. Finally, Ed threw up his hands. "Fine, stay here, whatever." With that, he made to stalk off, only to realize that Pinky's hand was still around his arm. "Let go," he growled.

"Aww, I think we made him angry," Pinky pouted again, pushing her lower lip out as far as it would go. "Don't be angry, Eddy! It's supposed to be fun!"

"You can't leave yet!"

"The party hasn't even started!"

Lindsay leaned over the table and gave him a glare that had no real heat behind it. "How do you expect to get home by yourself, anyway?"

...He hadn't thought of that.

Correctly interpreting his silence, The Driver patted the seat next to her. "It's okay, we don't bite."

With a sigh, he slid into the booth again, trying not to grimace as The Driver immediately leaned an arm on his shoulder. "You know Ed, you really need to loosen up a bit. Here, have a sip." She held up her amber-coloured drink to his face.

Even as he pushed it away, Blue-eyes was shaking her head. "Ally, he can't drink, remember? He's DD."

The Driver sighed. "It was worth a _try_."

Ed blinked. "Wait, what? DD?"

The girls looked at him. "DD. You know, Designated Driver? Ya can't drink 'cause you gotta drive." Blue-eyes slurred.

His eyebrows came together. "Why would I be the designated driver? I can't even drive!"

Three of the girls turned to look at Lindsay, heads turning in an eerily synchronized way that was too precise to have been practised. "Liiiiiiiiinds!" Pinky whined. "That's why you brought him along! You said he had a license!"

Lindsay flipped her hair over her shoulder agitatedly. "I said I _thought _he had a license. What kind of guy his age doesn't, _honestly_!" By that point, she was glaring at him as if it were all his fault that he hadn't lived up to her frankly unreasonable expectations.

The Driver was already throwing her hands in the air. "You mean he can't actually drive? Then who's gonna be DD? We're all drunk already, and none of you have your licenses yet."

Ed didn't like where this was going.

Lindsay scowled. "I guess we'll just have to wait and see if anyone wants to give us a lift, or call a cab."

The Driver shook her head vigorously. "Ohhhh no, I'm not leaving my car here for some idiot to steal! No way."

"Well I'm not letting you drive drunk, Ally," Blue-eyes suddenly spoke up, now leaning against the brunette. Her voice was full of what would have been stern concern if she hadn't been slurring her words into each other. "M'mum says that if I ever get in a car with a drunk driver, she'll never let me go out again."

Pinky whined from her spot beside Lindsay. "What'll we _dooo_?" she huffed, leaning her face into the table.

The look Lindsay was suddenly giving Ed set his nerves on edge.

"Hey Ed, you say you're _oh so smart_..."

* * *

Underage girls going to a club and dragging him along so that they wouldn't have to drive home drunk or get targeted by some kind of predator, he could deal with.

People hitting on him at the club, sure. That was fine.

Being forced to stay somewhat later than he would have liked because of being guilt-tripped by four pairs of wide eyes... okay. He could handle that.

Having to awkwardly hold back a girl's hair as she puked into the co-ed bathroom's rather disgusting toilet... unpleasant, but not too far beyond his zone of comfort.

Having a number of drinks spilt on him over the course of the last hour as the girls got progressively more and more drunk... Alright, that was going a little bit far, but there wasn't really anything he could do about it unless he wanted to let them wander the club as they apparently wanted to.

But this... This he _knew_ he shouldn't be doing.

"Nuh-uh, you press the gas _after_ you change gears," The Driver slurred from the passenger seat, half leaning out of her seatbelt as she tried to reach for the steering wheel and missed. "Shift 'nto drive 'n' _then_ put your foot down."

Ed gritted his teeth and moved his foot over to the brake before carefully grasping the gearshift in his automail hand—he _really_ didn't want to break it—and moved it towards the 'D'.

The car jerked a little bit when he pressed the gas again, but then they were moving. The only thing he felt he could really be grateful for right now was that his left automail foot wasn't the one to be working the pedals, otherwise they probably would have already crashed.

Of course, that didn't rule out the possibility of a crash in the near future.

"I really don't think this is a good idea."

A series of groans and whining sounded from the back seat.

"Eeeeed, you can't wimp out now!" Lindsay mumbled.

"Y're big 'n' smart 'n' handsome, s'not hard," Pinky added.

Blue-eyes was too busy passing out to add her own charming statement of confidence.

"I've never driven a car in my life," he warned them. "We're probably going to crash."

The Driver rolled her eyes. "It's not like 's _hard_," she grumbled. "C'mon, you're doin' _fine_."

If _fine_ meant jerking at every stop light and possibly getting whiplash, along with nearly side-swiping a little red van three blocks back, then he really didn't want to see her definition of _terrible_.

"Y'know, if we get pulled over we'll all be 'rrested," Lindsay suddenly piped up, leaning against the back of The Driver's seat and flopping her arm on the other girl's shoulder.

"Then we won't get pulled over, will we, Eddy?" The Driver gave him a brilliant smile that he barely managed to acknowledge with a nervous grimace before he looked back at the road and jerked the wheel to the side, barely avoiding a cyclist who was wearing all black.

"Of all the stupid..." he growled under his breath, making a rude gesture at the man as he passed. He then immediately put both hands back on the wheel as the car swerved dangerously.

He didn't know why he'd agreed to this. Maybe it was because Lindsay had challenged his intelligence by suggesting he wouldn't be able to learn how to drive fast enough to actually get them home in one piece. Maybe it was because if he _hadn't_ agreed to drive, The Driver would have gotten behind the wheel, inebriated or not, and probably would have killed them all before even leaving the parking lot. Maybe it was because he really didn't want to wait around until one of them was sober enough to drive, because Catherine was totally going to _kill_ him if he didn't get Lindsay home before she got back from the lab.

Or maybe he really did entirely lack common sense.

"Signal light," The Driver slurred indistinctly as Ed moved to merge onto the highway. With a sigh, he flicked the lever behind the wheel, and nearly managed to run into the side of a large truck.

This was turning out to be a _long_ night.

* * *

He pulled into the back alley of the house with some relief, pressing on the brake and jerking to a stop before turning the key and sighing.

Finding all three girls' houses when they were almost too drunk to even speak was extremely difficult, especially since he had never been to Las Vegas in his life.

Oh, yeah. And never having driven before didn't help with it.

He was more than relieved that the car—and all of its occupants—had made it through the night. He certainly hadn't hoped for nearly as much.

"Mum won't notice th' car back here 'n' Ally'll pick it up in the morning," Lindsay reassured him as he helped her out of the passenger seat. Strangely, he didn't feel at all comforted. Really, all he felt was relief that this whole fiasco was over.

That relief only lasted until he realized that there were lights on in the house. Lights that he'd been sure he had turned off before leaving.

They were so dead.

* * *

**Still not sure how I feel about this chapter, but I hope it was enjoyable. I think it was born out of my desire to write something drunk and disorderly and generally cathartic instead of serious.**

**On another note, I survived Reichenbach. Cried into a pillow and ranted on Tumblr afterwards, but I survived. Now we just have to wait another year to see where Moffat and Gatiss are going to take Sherlock from here.  
**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	21. Consequence

**I apologize for the lateness; it was caused by a combination of midterms, vacation in Mexico, and my university wind orchestra tour. Once I actually managed to get more than six hours' sleep, I finally got this out.**

**Rather introspective chapter, this one. Sorry people, it's not quite as plot-related an arc as you 'd probably like; more along the lines of character development and interaction.**

**Warnings: Angst, people's mouths running away with them, a little bit of language**

* * *

Catherine's heart lurched in her chest as a thump and a groan followed the crash. The phone in her hand was gripped so tightly she could barely feel it any more.

"Catherine? What's happening?"

Grissom's voice spurred her into action, and she was already darting to the kitchen door, her hand raised and ready to lash out at whoever was in her house.

A curse, followed by a strangely familiar giggle, stopped her in her tracks.

Was that...?

She peeked around the kitchen doorway and saw two figures on the floor just through the back door. Her mind immediately went to the worst possible conclusion; she was a mother, after all. Her daughter was sixteen, and she herself had done a number of worse things at her age. So seeing Lindsay and Ed sprawled together on the kitchen floor, she couldn't help but draw unpleasant conclusions.

Thankfully, that conclusion only lasted a few seconds before Ed cursed again and stood, and running a hand through his somewhat dishevelled hair and giving Lindsay a disgusted look as she continued to lay on the floor, little giggles escaping her mouth every few seconds.

"So much for not making noise," he muttered, before reaching down and grabbing Lindsay's arm none-too-gently, attempting to pull her to her feet. The girl staggered and fell against one of the kitchen chairs.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?"

Ed flinched violently and let go of Lindsay's arm, already backing away from the kitchen doorway with his hands in the air, as if he were surrendering. His eyes met Catherine's, and all she could make out at the moment was shocked guilt.

"Hiya, Mum," Lindsay slurred from where she leaned against the table. "What're you doin' home?"

Her glare shifted to her daughter, giving her a critical once-over and not liking what she saw. Lindsay was wearing a dress that was _far_ too short for her, and trying to stand in heels that Catherine didn't even want to imagine walking in. The girl's hair was an absolute mess, and there was a glassiness to her eyes that her mother didn't want to consider.

"Where have you been?" she demanded, advancing into the kitchen like a lioness stalking its prey. "It's three in the morning!"

Lindsay rolled her eyes, and simultaneously rolled onto the table until she was lying on it, staring up at her mother with absent contempt. "S'not like it's super late, you've been out later."

Catherine shook her head in disbelief. "Are you _drunk_?"

The teenager huffed and tried to stand, only succeeding in stumbling into a chair and flopping there. "_Nooooo_."

Catherine's mouth opened and closed a few times, speechless. "You... you went out to a _bar _at three in the morning on a school night? And got _drunk_? You're sixteen years old!"

Lindsay groaned, as if Catherine's objections were the stupidest things she had ever heard. "It's not like it's _bad_ f'r me," she muttered, though Catherine could barely make out the words.

"It's not _bad_ for you? What kind of idea is that, Lindsay? You can't even stand up straight! How long have you been out there? Where did you go?"

Lindsay waved a hand in the air haphazardly. "Just around, y'know?"

Catherine grabbed the hand, and Lindsay whined, trying to pull away. She didn't let go; she was livid. "Do you know how _worried _I've been? I called to make sure you were alright, and what do you do? Leave as soon as you hang up! What, did you think I wouldn't notice? Did you think that it would be _okay_ if you went out with your friends in the middle of the night and ended up _dead_ in a _gutter_ because you were too busy drinking to notice?"

Lindsay's breathing was picking up, and tears were pricking her eyes as she fought against her mother, but Catherine was not appeased.

"Leggo!" the girl cried, trying to kick with her heels but barely able to get them off of the floor in her current state.

"I come home to find that there's no one here. I nearly sent the police out after you! I thought you'd been kidnapped! What was I supposed to do?"

"Stop it!" Tears were coursing down Lindsay's flushed face.

"You know what? Fine!" Catherine released Lindsay's arm none-too-gently and stepped back. "Fine. Go and get drunk in the middle of the night. It's not as though I can stop you!_ Oh, look, it's Lindsay's mom, she can't do anything useful, what does she know? Why should we listen to her? It's not like she cares at all about her daughter!" _Lindsay was trying to cover her ears, and something in Catherine's subconscious told her that maybe she was going a bit far. But she wasn't done; not nearly. The righteous fury was fuelled by relief and disappointment in equal measures, and she couldn't have stopped if she'd tried. "Why _should_ I care, Lindsay? You can make your own choices! Last year it was stripping, now this? What am I supposed to do with you? If my rules are so repulsive, why don't you just leave? That seemed like a good enough option for Ed; maybe you want that, too? Would that make you happy?"

"_No_!" Lindsay whimpered and gripped her hair before staggering to her feet and stumbling out of the kitchen. A second later, Catherine heard the bathroom door slam and the unmistakable sound of retching.

She was tempted to follow Lindsay there, her motherly concern warring violently with her continued anger, before a small noise attracted her attention to the other remaining occupant of the room.

"And _you_!"

Ed started guiltily, his eyes wide and his hands clenched tightly against the counter he was leaning against. Catherine turned fully towards him, and he quailed as though her fury were a physical force.

"How could you have let her do something like this?" Ed opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. "I left you here expecting that you would stay! Did it not occur to you that you were putting both of your lives in danger by going out like that? What were you _thinking_?"

Ed's eyes narrowed suddenly, and a defiant look entered them. "Well, it's not like I had a _choice_—"

She snorted. "Oh, so you couldn't have possibly just _stayed home_ like you promised you would? You couldn't have just avoided this situation altogether?"

"What, and just let Lindsay go to the bar by herself and end up getting killed?" Ed demanded, throwing his arm out to indicate the bathroom, from which the sound of running water could be heard. "She was going whether I went along or not! Does that even matter to you?"

"You could have called me!"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, because that is _definitely_ my first response in a situation like that!"

"It _should_ be!" she retorted furiously. "It's not your job to protect her, Ed! Did the fact that you'd already been targeted once not even pop into your mind?"

Ed's eyes burned with anger, though it would never eclipse Catherine's own. "Well I think that me being with her was safer than—"

"Safer than what? You can't do anything to help her when you're both drunk!"

"I'm not _drunk_!" Ed cut in, throwing his hands out with a furiously betrayed look on his face. "I'm not an idiot!"

Catherine gestured at his jacket, which was very obviously stained with large patches of liquid. "Oh, so that's orange juice, is it?"

Ed clenched a fist and ripped off his jacket, throwing it on the floor. "That's from where _your daughter_ and her little _friends_ spilled their drinks all over while I tried to stop them from _wandering off_!"

She felt the slightest twinge of regret, but continued ire overrode it. "And you think that's any better? You think that letting _them_ drink is acceptable as long as _you _don't?"

"If you didn't want them driving home drunk, then yes!"

That statement sent Catherine's level of disbelief skyrocketing. "You all _drove_ to the bar? How did you get home?"

Ed's face flushed slightly, and his jaw clenched. "I drove them back."

"Do you even have a license?"

"No," he said immediately, and she was momentarily struck speechless. "Actually, I've never been behind the wheel of a car in my _life_. And look! I got them home safe, which is more than I can say if I'd been sitting here twiddling my thumbs while her idiot of a friend decided she didn't want to leave her car at a club!"

Catherine threw her hands in the air, trying to ignore how her heart lurched at the thought of her daughter in a car being driven by someone who'd never even learned to drive. "Are you insane? Do you know how illegal that is? You could have died! You could have killed everyone with you!"

"At least I was sober! Would you prefer someone who can't even see straight?"

"I would have preferred you call a cab!"

"Well that wasn't an option, because the one who actually _had_ a license wouldn't let us leave if we left her car in the parking lot!"

Catherine growled. "Who was there?"

Ed tossed his arms over his head. "Hell if I know! They were too busy trying to get themselves drunk to bother telling me!"

She clenched her teeth, nearly incoherent with rage. "Well you're just oh-so-helpful, aren't you? Do you even know what the word responsibility means?"

He crossed his arms over his chest. "Do you even know what the word 'restraint' means?" he threw right back at her. "Because I didn't see much of it when you were tearing into Lindsay!"

Catherine flinched slightly at the dig, but her mouth was still going. "I'll deal with my daughter any way I have to!"

"Well you're sure not doing a very good job of it, shouting at me while she's busy throwing up in the bathroom!"

She clenched her fists. "Whatever consequences she has because of getting drunk are her own to deal with. What would _your_ mother have done?" she demanded.

Ed's face abruptly went from angry to utterly dark and _furious_. He pushed himself off of the counter and practically towered over the CSI, despite the fact that she had at least a foot and a half on him.

"_Nothing_," he hissed. "Absolutely _nothing_, because she was dead before I was old enough to even start thinking about shit like that. The same goes for every other authority figure in my life! Was my father supposed to wander back home just to get mad at me for stupid mistakes? Was that bastard Mustang supposed to give me a telling-off before running off on his own suicide mission? Ha!" He gave a chillingly bitter laugh and tossed his hands to the sides, holding them there like he was exposing himself to the world. "I'm my own master here, Catherine!" Where any other teenager would have sounded complacent, even pleased, saying that, the only thing in his tone besides bitterness and fury was a strange, deep sadness that was impossible to interpret.

Before she could respond in her shock, Ed was already turning and stalking down the hallway, past the bathroom door, and into his own room. The door didn't slam; no, the silent click it made as it was closed gently was far worse.

Catherine was frozen where she stood, unable to think of how the situation had degraded as it did.

"—Cath?"

She jumped slightly and looked down at the cell phone she still held in her hand. Hadn't she...?

"You there?"

Apparently not. She held the phone up to her ear just as Grissom tried to get her attention again. "I'm... I'm here."

There was silence on the other side of the phone for a second, and she couldn't help but feel shame rise up in her throat. He had obviously heard the entire confrontation, and having someone be a witness to her definite lapse in judgment made everything worse.

"Are you okay?"

She rubbed her face and took a deep breath. "I don't know."

"Brass and I are almost there. Hold on for a few minutes, okay?"

"Yeah... Yeah, okay." She looked up at the ceiling, but any prayer she had for inner peace was drowned out by the roiling regret she was already feeling for everything she'd said to both young occupants of her house. Flipping the phone shut with a sigh, she made her way down the hall.

"Lindsay?" she called softly as she knocked on the bathroom door. "Are you okay?"

There was no response; not even the running of water. Feeling concern rise up despite herself, she opened the door.

Lindsay was lying with her cheek against the toilet seat, tear tracks still visible on her face and a bit of sick smeared across her chin. Her make-up was impossibly smudged, and her eyes were half-closed and staring glassily at nothing.

Catherine immediately grabbed a cloth and wet it, kneeling down beside her daughter with a concerned murmur. She gently lifted Lindsay's head and wiped her face. The girl let out a pitiful little moan and mumbled something incoherent.

"Just hold on for a second and we'll get you in bed," Catherine reassured her, her previous anger almost entirely forgotten in the face of Lindsay's state. She tried to get the teen to stand, but the heels she still had strapped to her feet seemed to be too much for her. Lindsay swayed precariously and would have pitched into the counter if her mother hadn't gotten her hands around her and lifted her quickly into the air.

"Come on, work with me here," she murmured, but it was apparent that Lindsay didn't currently have the faculties to even open her eyes fully, let alone help support her own weight. With a sigh, the CSI carefully manoeuvred the girl out into the hallway and down to her room, ignoring the books still scattered about the floor as she set Lindsay down on the bed. What she wouldn't give for her daughter to still be small enough to carry—and young enough not to get into situations like this.

"Let's get your shoes off." She undid the straps and slid them off. Lindsay's current state of unresponsiveness made even that difficult, so she decided that the dress could stay. There was no way she could get her daughter into proper night clothes at this rate. "Alright, do you want a glass of water or anything?" she asked, looking up at the girl's face. She sighed as she realized that Lindsay's eyes were closed completely; she had passed out. Resigned, Catherine pulled the blankets out from under her and tucked her in. Lindsay didn't as much as twitch as she was cocooned.

Catherine stood looking down at her daughter sadly for a moment, before shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you?" she wondered aloud. With another head shake and a sigh, she stepped carefully out of the room and turned off the light, closing the door behind her.

_One down, one to go..._

Hesitantly, she stood in front of Ed's door, wondering if it really was a good idea to try and apologize tonight. Maybe it was better to just let him simmer for awhile and then talk to him when he had calmed down. But then her mind went back to the look of dark despair in his eyes. That wasn't the look of someone who was angry. That was the look of someone who was hurting and trying to hide it.

Resolved, she knocked lightly on the door.

There was no response.

Lips pursed, she knocked again. "Ed, can I come in?"

Silence.

Somewhat concerned, she grabbed the handle and tried to open the door.

The knob wouldn't turn.

Eyebrows furrowed, she gripped it harder and gave it a wrench, but it still stayed stubbornly immobile. It wasn't just locked; it simply wouldn't move at all.

"Ed, open the door."

She heard some kind of shuffling sound from the other side.

"Leave me alone."

She shook her head, even though he couldn't see it. "Ed, you—"

"Please."

That stopped her short. There was so much emotion in that one word that she couldn't interpret it in the slightest.

"Please, just..."

"Okay," she murmured, stepping away from the door and staring it for a minute, as though she could see through it to the obviously hurting, stubborn teenager on the other side. With a small sigh—this night had not ended good for any of them—she went to the kitchen to wait for Grissom.

* * *

Ed stared up at the ceiling as he lay sprawled on his back on the bed. The case with Doc's prosthetics was cold against his side, but he ignored it as he studied the stippling above him.

His mind kept flashing through scenes—

_His father, closing the door behind him without so much as a goodbye, his mother leaning against it with tears in her eyes even as she tried to smile for him..._

_His mother, smiling at him and Al even as her face grew paler and her grip limper, telling them to take care of one another..._

_Granny Pinako, staring at him in shock as he lay nearly incoherent in his brother's cold metal arms, blood dripping from his two missing limbs..._

_Colonel Mustang—then only a Lieutenant Colonel—with Hawkeye by his side, asking him to join the State Alchemists..._

_That same man, giving him a two-fingered salute as he left to face Pride, likely to die at the homunculus' hands and not caring one bit because he said it would help him become Fuhrer..._

_Major Armstrong, giving him a sad look as he ran after the ones who'd taken Alphonse..._

_Havoc, cigarette firmly in place in his mouth, asking if he'd managed to find a girlfriend yet..._

_Hawkeye, her eyes softening in a rare show of emotion as she patted him on the head after he'd had another spat with the Colonel..._

_Maria Ross, her eyes compassionate as she wrapped her arms around him, risking her life in Lab 5 in order to save his..._

_His mother, hugging him when he'd fallen off the wall she'd told him not to walk on..._

And it continued, more and more memories flashing before his eyes as he stared up into space.

What were they doing now? Were the people he knew in Central still alive? Were they happy? Would they have disapproved of everything he'd done since he ended up in this confusing place with nothing but the clothes on his back? Would they have gotten as angry at him as Catherine had? Was he really such an idiot that even his best of intentions would always end up hurting someone?

He reached up and rubbed his eyes before letting his arms fall to the bed again. He hadn't expected Catherine's words to affect him so strongly. He had been fully prepared to accept the consequences of his actions—after all, he'd known that she would be angry about what Lindsay and, by association, Ed had done. She was a mother; it was her job. What he _hadn't_ expected was to get so defensive. And then she'd said _that_...

_Am I such a horrible son?_ He wondered absently, no real emotion behind the thought. _What would Mom say?_

To his dismay, nothing came to mind. Had she really been gone so long that he could no longer remember how she would act in situations like this? Or had he really grown so different from those years that he had absolutely no precedent from which to draw?

He already knew what Mustang would say...

"_You're always rushing into things with no thoughts to the consequences, Fullmetal! When will you learn that your own desires are secondary to those of the people around you? When will you learn to act responsibly? At least listen to your brother every once in awhile; maybe then you'd gain some common sense."_

He snorted and rolled onto his side. "Sorry, old man," he muttered to himself. "Al's not here right now to set a good example."

Granny Pinako would probably just give him that disapproving stare she had patented years ago, before finally pulling out her pipe and muttering about boys being boys and being thankful that he at least had the sense not to get anyone killed.

Havoc would probably congratulate him on being a rebel, all things considered. The others at the office wouldn't have much to say after that.

He groaned and shoved his face into the sheets. What was the point of thinking of all this? It was only serving to make him feel even worse, adding a strange homesickness to his already dour mood.

Suddenly, a knock sounded on the door. He rolled slightly and looked up at the door through the darkness of the room, fully prepared to tell Catherine to go away again, before a voice that wasn't hers spoke through the door.

"Ed?"

Grissom.

He couldn't decide if this was a better or worse situation than having Catherine come again, so he merely curled up on the bed and tried to ignore it.

"Ed, can I come in?"

"No," he muttered rebelliously, though it wasn't loud enough to actually be heard through the door.

He heard a sigh, then a moment of silence. Grissom was probably trying the door like Catherine had. Ed was immensely glad he hadn't relied on the lock again and had instead transmuted the inner mechanisms together so that they couldn't move. No one was coming through that door without his say-so; to hell with the questions it would probably raise. There were enough unanswered questions around him to fill a circus tent, and then some. What was one more?

"Open the door, please." Grissom's voice was unusually stern, and Ed found himself tensing slightly.

"Why?" he demanded quietly, carefully not letting his defensiveness seep into his voice.

"Because I need to talk to you."

"Then talk. You don't need to see me to do it."

There was another sigh, and then the sound of something hitting the door, before Grissom spoke again. His voice came from lower, and Ed assumed he'd sat against the door. "Catherine was really worried when she came home and there was no one here."

Ed felt the shame rise up in him again. The shame... and the guilt. He hadn't _meant_ to cause her so much worry. In fact, his original intention had been to lessen Catherine's worry by making sure that Lindsay actually made it home safely, preferably before Catherine even realized they'd been gone.

Grissom continued after a minute of silence. "The story's gotten muddled and you're the only one who knows all of it. Care to share?"

_No, not really_, he thought immediately. But Grissom had chosen the right way to put the question; he wasn't accusing Ed of anything. He was just asking for his side of the story. Ed sighed as he realized that it would be impossible not to deny the CSI without sounding like a child, and he had a chance to actually make his reasons known.

"I wasn't planning on going in the first place," he muttered.

"Pardon?"

"I didn't want to go," he repeated, louder. "Lindsay was going to go anyway, but I knew that Catherine would be mad if I went because I said I'd stay here, and I don't break my word. I honestly wasn't going to go."

"So why did you?" It was a neutral question, no accusation in it. Just wanting more information.

"Because I didn't want Lindsay going alone." He rubbed his forehead. "I know it sounds stupid now—because what could I do, really?—but I felt like she wouldn't be safe unless I went with her, and she and her friends were going whether or not I came along. I didn't... I didn't want Catherine to have to worry about her if she didn't come back. And with that sadistic bastard out there killing all those girls..."

"You didn't want her to be another one," Grissom surmised calmly.

He nodded, even though the man wouldn't be able to see it. "It would have been my fault."

There was silence for a moment. "Did anything happen where you went?"

"No. No really, besides the girls drinking too much and losing their minds. I don't even know how they got us in, let alone why _anyone_ would serve them alcohol!" He sat up and put his chin in his hand. "I mean, what kind of messed up place actually sells that much liquor to teenagers?"

"Some places don't care, as long as you're paying."

Ed snorted. "They don't care who they hurt so long as they get their money," he summarized with a dark glare at the floor. The silence from Grissom sounded a lot like agreement.

"Catherine said something about you driving everyone home. I didn't know you had a license."

"I don't. It was either learn as fast as I could, or let the drunk one who owned the car drive home. Getting everyone killed wasn't on my to-do list for the night, and I trust my own abilities a lot more than hers."

"And you didn't hit anything?"

"Well, obviously. I'm here, aren't I? The car's out back, you can go and check it if you really want to."

Grissom hummed in an odd way. "No, I trust you." After a moment, he continued. "That was very dangerous, not to mention illegal."

He snorted. "Don't I know it? Tell that to my nerves."

"Why didn't you call someone?"

"I didn't know anyone's number. Didn't really have a phone, either. The girls weren't helpful. Have you ever had to deal with the combined strength of four stubborn drunk girls?"

"Can't say I have."

"Then you should know that it's impossible to go against anything they say. The driver wasn't going to let her car stay at the club. I just wanted to make sure they all made it home okay. I'm..." he swallowed, not sure if he should continue. "I'm not really used to having anyone reliable to call on. I usually just have to figure things out myself if I want them to end up well instead of going all to hell in a hand basket."

He lay back on the bed again and stared at the ceiling unseeingly as Grissom remained quiet. The silence lasted for a few minutes, and Ed found his mind wandering to different scenarios of the night. He saw the car mangled against a post, the girls inside unable to get out. He saw someone approaching them in the club and convincing them to leave. He saw Lindsay being snatched as they tried to walk home, and then an image of her on a table in the morgue that Doc had shown him only yesterday, with Catherine standing over the body with a look of unbearable sadness in her eyes that quickly turned to blame as she saw Ed standing there...

"Ed?"

He blinked and sat up. "Yeah?"

"...I'm proud of you for taking care of those girls. You did well."

As a warm feeling rose up in his chest at those words, Ed couldn't help but feel like maybe, just maybe, the night hadn't been a total failure.

* * *

**Based on the nearness of the end-of-semester insanity here at uni, I can't guarantee when the next chapter will come out, nor how engaging or plot-related the content will be. I apologize in advance, and hopefully the next update will come before April.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	22. The Calm After The Storm

**And so ends the grueling paper writing. Just a few more days of class and I'm free! Sorry for the delay; I've been up to my ears in work. **

**Because I didn't say it before, I'd like to honestly get down on my knees and thank you all for the wonderful reviews you've left me. I never in my wildest dreams thought that this fic would be popular enough to get OVER A THOUSAND REVIEWS. You guys have seriously made my year. Thank you **_**so much**_**.**

**Warnings: A bit of teenage angst and shameless changes of subject. (And maybe another evil cliffhanger.)**

**Disclaimer: Quite obviously not mine. I wouldn't be quite so far into debt if they were.**

* * *

"Ed, are you up yet?"

"Gimme a minute!" came the immediate response, before the door was suddenly pulled open under her hands and Ed appeared in the doorway. Catherine blinked at his obviously dishevelled appearance. His hair was coming out of his braid and his leather jacket was half-falling off of his shoulder. He was shoving his right foot into one of his combat boots even as he held onto the doorway and shrugged the jacket on the rest of the way. With practiced deftness, he undid his braid and redid it with a speed that had Catherine frankly impressed. When Ed looked up at her through his bangs, she noticed his eyes were slightly redder than usual, and there were slight shadows beneath them. He was rubbing his shoulder as though it were aching.

"Did you sleep at all?" she asked incredulously. Ed winced.

"Um... Maybe a few hours?" At the look she gave him, he shrugged. "I promised I'd finish my improvements for Doc by this shift," he elaborated, holding up the large metal case she hadn't noticed him carrying. "I couldn't very well give them back half-finished, and I didn't have enough time earlier."

Neither of them mentioned _why_ Ed had lost time, but it was acknowledged nonetheless.

"And you don't think that staying up for over twenty four hours might have made you make mistakes?"

Ed immediately shook his head with a small smile. "Nope!" he said with certainty. "I've stayed up a lot longer before, doing research and... other things. Twenty four hours doesn't even faze me by this point." Catherine raised an eyebrow, but the teen only shrugged in a self-deprecating manner. "What can I say? I don't need much sleep."

"You realize you're still healing from being poisoned, don't you?"

He waved a hand negligently at her. "That was over a week ago. I'm fine."

"Right," she said doubtfully, giving him a once-over. "Well, don't blame me if you drop dead in the middle of the shift. Just don't fall on anything in Greg's lab."

"You just watch," Ed said, pointing a finger at her accusingly. "I'll be just fine all day."

She merely rolled her eyes and walked into the kitchen, while secretly hoping that he was right. She didn't think she could handle any more drama.

When Ed came into the kitchen, she was already setting out breakfast. As the teen took a seat at the table and dug into the hash browns and sausages as though he had never eaten before in his life, she reached over and grabbed what was laying across the back of her chair before sitting down herself.

"Here," she said, holding it out to the teen. Ed blinked and put down his cutlery before snatching up the red coat. "I took the liberty of washing it this morning. I figured you didn't want to smell like alcohol and whatever else was mixed in all day."

His brow tightened for a moment before relaxing. His eyes gained a strange quality, as though he were remembering something, and he gave her a small smile. "Thanks." With that, he threw it over the back of his own chair and returned to his food. She picked up her own fork.

"...Where's Lindsay?"

The question surprised her. She had fully expected for the silence about last night's fiasco to last at _least_ until they got to the lab, where Grissom would probably want to talk to either her or Ed about what had happened. "She's still asleep."

Ed cocked his head to the side. "I thought she had school."

"I called her in sick for the day."

The corners of his mouth tightened—whether from mirth or irritation, she didn't know. "You could have sent her to school anyway. It would have been a suitable punishment, having to function with a hangover." Catherine gave him a sharp look, and he held up his hands defensively. "What? That's what Mustang would always do if Havoc or Breda got drunk; they had to come in to work the next day regardless of how they felt. They said it was the Punishment from the Fiery Pit of Hell." He chuckled, and she got the feeling that there was a joke in there that she wasn't privy to.

"Who's Mustang?" she asked abruptly. "You mentioned him last night, too." Then she winced, because she hadn't meant to bring up the shouting match.

Fortunately, Ed didn't seem fazed by the reminder. "He's..." He paused, as if weighing his words. "He's kind of... the closest thing to a parent I've had since my mom died, I guess."

"Like a foster parent?"

Ed shook his head. "More like my employer, really."

"Doing what?"

"You know, this and that..." he said evasively.

She raised her eyebrow at him in the way that never failed to get answers from Lindsay in one form or another. It was the look that said _'You're not telling me something and I'd like to know what it is_'. Ed squirmed slightly, but remained silent. Apparently he was made of sterner stuff than Lindsay was.

"What about the other two—Havoc and Brenda, you said?"

Ed snorted. "Brenda!" Before she knew it he was chuckling mirthfully. "Oh, I am _so_ going to use that one on him sometime!" Catherine merely watched him in consternation as he quickly calmed. "His name's Breda—well, Heymans Breda. And Jean Havoc. They're coworkers."

"Sounds like quite the job if your boss makes you come in to work when hung over as a punishment."

"I think it's more of the Colonel being an utter bastard, really."

Catherine's heart nearly stopped in her chest. "Colonel?"

Ed froze with his fork halfway to his mouth. Panic flickered in his eyes for such a short moment that she could almost convince herself that she hadn't actually seen it before his hand came up behind his head in what her analytical mind categorized as a nervous gesture. His eyes closed as he gave a little chuckle that sounded slightly unsteady to her experienced ears. "Uh... yeah. That's what we call Mustang because he's such a stick-in-the-mud sometimes. You know, all military in how he deals with his employees. He's just too strict for his own good!"

She eyed him seriously for a minute as he continued to chuckle nervously, before shoving a forkful of hash browns in his mouth. The reaction was immediately categorized under the '_Suspicious'_ heading in the large mental list she was making of everything related to Ed.

There was silence in the kitchen for a minute, before Catherine spoke again.

"Ed, I'd like to apologize for last night." He paused in his eating again, looking down at his plate with his bangs shadowing his eyes. "I overreacted. I didn't try to get your side of the story. Though I'm not happy with what happened, I can understand what you were trying to do."

Ed raised his head and met her eyes. In his gaze, there was no accusation, only a strange sort of resignation. "No, I was being stupid. I should have called someone or... something." He looked away. "I'm always doing stupid stuff like that. Usually Al makes sure I keep my head, but he's not really around right now..." He shrugged.

Catherine felt a strange tug on her heartstrings, but as she opened her mouth to respond there came a thump from down the hall, followed by a stream of curses.

"Language!" she immediately reprimanded as she stood up and headed to the kitchen doorway. Lindsay was in the process of stumbling out of her room, and seemed to have tripped on the hall table.

"Volume!" the teen immediately snapped back, her voice hoarse and a hand going to her head as she tried to stand. Catherine stepped forward and put a hand on her elbow, easing her up.

"Careful," she said gently, though not any quieter. Lindsay twitched and gave her a glare through gummy eyes before she was led into the kitchen and to a chair at the table. The teen's face, already pale from the after-effects of the alcohol, went an impressive shade of green at the sight of the food on the table.

"Want any breakfast?" Catherine asked cheerily. Ed was looking with a fascinated sort of horror as the woman poured a glass of milk and sat down, taking a sip and nudging her breakfast plate toward her daughter. The look on his face told her that he thought what she was doing was absolutely evil, but he wasn't about to step in and stop it. She figured it was because he felt Lindsay deserved it, at least marginally.

Lindsay groaned and leaned her head down on the table. "Please, can I just... can I have a glass of water?" she whispered, her movements slow and careful as though they pained her—which they probably did.

With a sigh, Catherine relented. "I'll do you one better," she said, before standing and going about making what her mother had always called her 'specialty hangover tea'. As she set the cup before her silent daughter a minute later, she couldn't help but feel a little sorry for the girl. Yes, the simmering disappointment and anger were still there, beneath the surface, but her motherly concern and compassion were overriding them. After all, Catherine had done many much worse things in her earlier years. If she were to be completely honest with herself, she had actually been expecting—or at least _half_ expecting—something like this to happen much sooner. The stripping incident with Lindsay last year hadn't really come as a surprise. A single mother raising a teenager in the heart of Las Vegas wasn't really a recipe for a totally healthy, non-confrontational childhood.

As Lindsay grabbed the cup and took a tentative sip of the somewhat bitter tea, Catherine gently ran a hand through her daughter's hair. The girl's shoulders, tense with apprehension and pain, loosened ever so slightly.

She sat down to her breakfast again, and for a few minutes the only sound that filled the kitchen was that of eating. After awhile, Lindsay sat staring at her empty tea cup and mumbled something.

"Pardon?"

"Are you mad at me?" the teen whispered, looking more like a little girl than she had since she'd turned thirteen. Catherine put down her fork slowly. She saw that Ed was studiously looking out the kitchen window and eating his food with a forced naturalness, as though trying to help them pretend he wasn't actually there. The modicum of privacy was a small gesture, but one she appreciated.

With a sigh, she folded her hand together and put her chin on top of them. "Lindsay. I'm not going to lie to you and say that I'm not angry." The girl cringed slightly. Catherine sighed again. "What you did was stupid and irresponsible. It was completely unsafe. You know that right now there is someone targeting girls your age and description. Even without that, Vegas is dangerous; even more so when you're underage and intoxicated. I can't believe you would go to a club and get drunk without thinking about the consequences."

"I did think," Lindsay suddenly murmured, a slightly sullen tone in her voice. "That's why we got Ed to come."

"Did you? Did you ask if Ed had a license, or if he would be willing to drive you home? Did you stop to think about what would have happened if he hadn't been as responsible as he was? Not to mention that he drove anyway, _despite_ the fact the he doesn't have a license. Is that safer?"

Lindsay's shoulders hunched and she seemed to shrink into herself a little bit.

Catherine debated with herself for a moment, but quickly decided that avoiding another incident was a good idea. She was always under the firm opinion that keeping others informed of pertinent facts often kept them safer. "Also, there's an added danger in having Ed with you." Lindsay's head came up sharply, her eyebrows drawn together in confusion. "He's been targeted in the past by one of the people we're trying to investigate. That's why he's staying with us; he's a material witness. He was supposed to stay in the house last night, but chose instead to come with you and your friends to make sure you got home safely. If anything had happened, all of you could have been killed."

Lindsay's eyes were wide and she looked over at Ed, who was still staring pointedly out the window as though he had heard nothing at all. Her gaze came back to her mother, her mouth opening and closing a number of times. Slowly, as realization sunk in, guilt arose in her gaze.

"Targeted? But... why?" A tiny bit of terrified indignation entered her tone. "Why didn't you tell me? We've been in danger this whole time? Why... why is he staying _here_?"

Catherine sighed. "Lindsay, you already know that in my line of work, danger's always there. Ed's safe as long as he stays in places where there's always someone near him."

"Well there wasn't last night!" Lindsay's voice was getting higher in panic. "What if someone had come into the house, because you weren't here—"

"And you believe that being at a _club_ was any safer?" Catherine interjected, her voice rising in volume despite herself. Her daughter winced and rubbed her head, even as she ducked down in guilt again. The CSI sighed; she knew that Lindsay's panic was in part due to her own guilty conscience. "Lindsay, look." She sighed again and folded her hands on the table, looking down at them. "I know that you know you made a bad choice. And I can't say I'm not angry about it." Lindsay gave her a sharp look, but she merely held up her hand to forestall any objections. "_But_, you're still my daughter. You know I will always be concerned about you. I was scared last night. More scared than I've been in a long time."

"Mom, I—" Lindsay started, but her voice died out as a look of guilt overtook her pale features.

Catherine sighed and ran a hand through her hair. "I know."

And that was all that really needed to be said.

* * *

"You let her off light," Ed grumbled from the passenger seat as they drove down the highway.

Catherine looked over at him with a raised eyebrow. "Did I?"

He nodded sharply, crossing his arms over his chest. He resolutely told himself that he was irritated because Catherine's lack of harsh discipline with her daughter would lead to more problems in the future, but he knew deep down that it was really because he wanted to see that evil blonde pay for all the trouble she'd put him through in the past twenty four hours. "Anyone I know would have at least given her a good beating—maybe hung her up by her toes in the basement for a few hours."

She was giving him such a disgustingly horrified look that he held up his hands in a calming gesture. "Hey, I was just kidding!"

She rolled her eyes and returned her attention to the road. "And what would _you _have done, oh wise one?"

His eye twitched slightly, but he ignored it. "I would have at least given her a few weeks of some kind of hard labour, like painting the entire house and washing all the dishes."

"And you think being grounded for two weeks isn't a sufficient punishment?"

Ed snorted. "No. Keeping her in the house might make it easier to keep track of her, but it's hardly a _punishment_. I know of a dozen different things I could do to entertain myself. Hell, you have enough books in your house to last twice that long."

She gave him a sidelong look. "I think the concept of what _you_ think is boring and what everyone else thinks is boring is distinctly different."

His eyebrows came together. "What does that mean?"

She merely gave him a slightly mysterious smile and turned back to the road.

"Hey, what are you trying to say?"

She continued to ignore him, and he couldn't help but think that this was entirely too amusing for her.

* * *

Ed tried not to be anxious as he watched Doc Robbins settle the prosthetics over the stumps of his legs. He really tried; after all, why would he be anxious? It's not like he was waiting for judgment on his handiwork. He wasn't concerned about what Doc thought. He was simply professionally interested in whether or not his modifications were effective improvements.

"Feels pretty normal," Doc murmured as he stood with the help of his cane. Ed felt a small amount of relief as the older man successfully settled himself in an upright position.

...Okay, so maybe he was a little bit emotionally invested in the outcome of his experimentation. But hey, he'd spent well over twelve hours on the modifications. He deserved to have a little bit of concern over whether or not their wearer found them satisfactory.

Doc reached down and straightened one of his pant legs before twisting his back slightly and standing upright like he was ready to walk onto a stage. He tapped his cane on the floor in front of him and shuffled forward. Immediately, a look of perplexity entered his eyes, and Ed stepped forward, just in case something was going wrong and the man was about to fall over. Luckily, he kept his balance, cocking his head to one side and staring down at his legs.

"The angles feel odd."

Ed blinked, before smacking his forehead. "I knew I forgot something!" Ignoring Doc's slightly alarmed look, he motioned for the man to move back to the chair he'd been sitting in and pull up his pant legs.

"This here," he explained, kneeling down and placing his finger on a small screw-like wheel on the side of the ankle, "is for adjusting the tension of the joint." At Doc's perplexed look, he elaborated. "I saw how rigid the joints were on the leg before, so I added a belt inside each of the ankles and knees, and loosened the joints themselves. By adjusting this screw, you can change the angle and flexibility of the prosthetic." He turned the screw he was pointing at a half-turn to the right, and the prosthetic foot fell forward slightly, sitting at an angle closer to ninety degrees. "They can adjust up to forty five degrees in both directions."

He looked up to find Doc staring at him, instead of at the prosthetic. There was something in that stare that made him duck his head and fiddle with the screw a bit more. "You'll have to figure out what's most comfortable and adjust both legs to match, but after that it should be much easier to actually move around with them," he said to his knees.

"You're really something else, you know that?" Blinking, Ed looked up to see Doc studying him with a raised eyebrow. "Not many people I know would have the ingenuity or the ability to nearly recreate a prosthetic limb in less than twenty four hours. You rethought the entire structure and put it together with scrap metal. That's some talent you have there."

Ed averted his eyes. "I'm just good with thinking outside the box."

"That doesn't explain how you managed to put something like this together." He tapped the tension screw thoughtfully. "There wasn't anything like this in the bag of scraps I gave you."

Ed's shoulders tensed imperceptibly, but he tried to stay casual. "It's just something I found on my own."

Doc nodded thoughtfully, then leaned down and began twisting the screws on each leg, adjusting them to his preference. After a few minutes, he stood again and took another step forward. This time, he paused after two steps. Ed bit his lip, hoping there wasn't something else wrong. Despite what he'd said before, he really didn't have any way to pay Doc back if he actually _had_ broken something somehow.

Doc looked back at him, and there was a strange gleam in his eye. Ed's mind told him it was almost wonder with a side of impressed gratitude, but he quickly squashed that because there was no way that someone as knowledgeable as Doc Robbins would be looking at him like that.

"These are remarkable," the older man said, tapping one of the heels on the ground as he balanced against his cane. "It's been a good ten years since I had anything resembling new on my legs, and these feel almost as comfortable as the ones I tried on at the lab for fun." He turned around fully and took a few steps until he was level with Ed. The strides looked far more self-assured and smooth than they ever had before, though Ed privately thought that the prosthetic still had nothing on automail. "I haven't had this much freedom of movement in a long time."

Ed blinked and rubbed the back of his head. "The changes weren't that big; I don't think I made much of a difference. They're basically just adjustable now, and I added a few things to make them move easier."

Doc nodded, his eyes twinkling. "I'm not a young man anymore, Edward. Anything that can help me move just a little bit easier is a godsend. What you've done is more than enough, and I'm glad I trusted you." With a sudden decisive nod, he tapped the top of his cane. "I should pay you for a job well done."

Ed wrinkled his nose and shook his head. "I didn't do it for money. I don't need anything."

Doc raised an eyebrow. "Are you sure? Because what you've done is on par with some of the higher-level prosthetics I've tried in the past, and you've certainly created it much more quickly than most professionals would have. I should pay you for the thousands of dollars you've saved me."

Ed shook his head more forcefully and held his hands out in front of him. "I don't need any money."

"Most kids your age would jump on any payment offered."

"Why do people _insist_ on comparing me to 'people my age' all the time?" Ed groused, running a hand through his bangs. "Age isn't a determining factor in a person's behaviour!"

Doc nodded with a small smile. "Indeed it isn't. I suppose I can respect that." He patted the side of his leg. "But I _will_ be doing you a favour sometime to make it up to you. If you ever need anything, you only have to ask."

Ed felt his face redden, and he ducked his head. "Yeah, sure," he mumbled, embarrassed that Doc should feel he was in his debt. That was one favour he probably wouldn't be calling in anytime soon.

"Anyway, I already promised you a few books. Been bored lately?"

He couldn't stop the wide smile that immediately spread across his face. "Only always."

* * *

Three days later, Ed peeked into the door of Greg's lab, only to see that the young Trace expert was nowhere to be found. Scratching his head, the teen turned around and headed in the direction of the break room.

"Hey, Ed!" He turned on his heel to see Greg standing at the door to his lab with a large box in his arms. "Could you get the door for me?" the scientist asked, shrugging his shoulder under the weight of the obviously-heavy parcel.

"Sure," Ed replied, taking the few steps back to the lab and grabbing the door.

"Thanks," Greg said with relief evident in his tone as he set the box down on the only empty tabletop in the lab. He shook out his hands and smiled. "It finally came in!"

Ed blinked. "What finally came in?"

Greg nodded his head toward the partially-dissembled machine in the corner. "The last piece for that gas chromatograph."

"Ah," Ed said intelligently as Greg began to rip open the tape on the box with a pen knife attached to his keys.

"Feel up to helping me put it together?" he asked suddenly.

"I don't think that'd be such a good idea..."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Come on, everyone heard about what you did with Doc's legs. You can't tell me you're no good with that kind of thing. Besides, it's not like it's too difficult."

Ed raised his hands in front of him. "I'm not saying that I'd break it or something, but Grissom didn't want me working with anything to do with cases. I'm not qualified." He wasn't sure what Grissom would think about it. Was this considered helping with evidence if he helped put together a machine that was used to analyze it? By the way Greg snorted and waved a hand nonchalantly, he assumed that it really wasn't.

"He didn't want you working directly with anything to do with your case. This has nothing to do with you right now. Besides," he winked and grinned, "you have to be doing something, otherwise you might just be tampering with evidence behind my back."

Ed couldn't help but grin back at him. "Well then, bring it on!"

Fifteen minutes later, both young men were glaring at the machine as though it had done them some kind of personal wrong. Which, all things considered, it had.

"Why won't it _fit_?" Greg groused as he tried to pop the last piece on the front of the machine into place so they could replace the front panel.

Ed scratched his nose as he looked at the instructions again. It had pictures of each piece, but the way they fit together in the diagram was either _entirely_ backwards or it was a design for another machine, because if it were right then they wouldn't be having this problem. He threw his hands in the air. "Are you sure these are the right instructions?"

Greg gave him a flat look before picking up the not-so-helpful diagram. "It's what I've been using this entire time, and it's worked so far..." He held the sheet up to the light and rotated it this way and that. "It's almost as bad as IKEA instructions..." he muttered. Ed wasn't sure what an IKEA was, but he assumed that it was synonymous with 'completely unintelligible'.

"Here, let me take a look." He elbowed the older man aside and peered into the space they were trying to fit the final piece into. With narrowed eyes, he snatched the instructions from Greg's hands and held it up next to the gap, comparing them. _It's... not quite..._

"Hey, Greg, I think there's an extra piece in here or something."

Greg cocked his head to one side and peered into the gap as well. "I don't know..."

"There is. Look," he held up the diagram again, "there's a rod sticking out about halfway down. It's not in the picture. That's probably what's blocking the slide from going in."

Greg tapped his chin. "Yeah, you're probably right." Then he groaned and rubbed his face. "I bet we'll have to take the whole thing apart to get it out!"

Ed pursed his lips. "You know, I think I can reach it. Maybe it'll come out easily." Without waiting for a response, he took off his left glove and slid his fingers into the relatively small gap, feeling around for the rod. His index finger just barely grazed against it, and he wedged his hand a little bit further in order to hook his finger around it. He gave a gentle pull, and then a slightly firmer one when the rod refused to move. Abruptly, as though a latch had been released, the rod gave way with a decisive _snick!_—but instead of popping out of the gap like he'd expected, it clicked to one side and sank into a gap in the large piece beside it. Ed's eyebrows came together as he ran his fingers over the place where it had disappeared and felt only a slight ridge where it lay flush with the plastic.

"I either fixed it or broke it," he deadpanned as he retracted his hand. Greg blinked at him and looked into the gap again.

"What happened? Where'd it go?"

Ed shrugged. "I think it was a latch that wasn't put into place earlier. It clicked in when I pulled on it."

Greg rubbed his chin after reaching in and feeling the flush surface. "I guess the only way to know is to put it together and turn it on."

Ed grinned. "Exactly."

The Trace expert picked up the final piece and slid it into the gap. Instead of halting halfway through like it had before, it slid smoothly into place. The two exchanged relieved grins, and Greg snapped the final cover onto the machine and plugged it in.

The resulting hum as the 'on' switch was flicked had them cheering. Out of the corner of his eye, Ed caught sight of Sara staring at them strangely through the glass walls of the lab before abruptly moving on.

"Good job, team," Greg cheered, holding up his hand for a high five. Ed obliged him.

"What now?" he asked.

"Now? Now we get lunch."

"That's just what I was thinking." With that, the two of them stepped out of the lab and headed to the break room.

* * *

Ed yawned as he sat leaning against the wall of the Trace lab with one of Doc Robbins' books on his lap. Greg looked over at him from the sample of... _something_ that he was dripping various chemicals onto through a microscope.

"Tired?" he asked. The teen shrugged.

"Not rea—" he started, only to be interrupted by another yawn. Greg chuckled.

"What have you been doing, pulling all-nighters or something?"

Ed shook his head, not really willing to divulge the fact that he'd been staying up far too late reading the few history books that Catherine kept around. "Nah, just tired."

Greg gave him a sidelong look. "Well you know, there's a cure for that. It's called napping."

Ed rolled his eyes. "I don't need a nap. Besides, you'd probably draw on my face or something."

The Trace expert raised an eyebrow. "Now why would I do something like that when I have so many more creative things I could do?"

Ed merely snorted and returned to his book. "Psycho," he muttered.

"Nerd," Greg retorted with a tiny smile as he focused his eyes back on his work.

"Geek."

"Kid."

"Obsessive."

"Shrimp."

The good-natured, murmured insults continued back and forth as both concentrated on their respective tasks. By now, it was a bit of a routine. At one point a few days ago Nick had walked in in the middle of it—and walked right back out again. It seemed he hadn't wanted to get involved in anything if they weren't joking.

Suddenly, the machine in the corner hummed. Greg looked up with a frown.

"I didn't have anything in there, did I?" he muttered, straightening up to go and check. Ed glanced up from his book with an eyebrow raised.

"Forgetting things now, are you?" he teased. Greg looked back at him and rolled his eyes.

"No, I'm pretty sure I didn't." He touched the status button and read the tiny screen. "Nope, nothing inside," he said in satisfaction. "It's probably just assessing its power or something. My printer at home does that all the time." With that, he turned to walk back to the table he'd been working at.

All of a sudden, the hairs on the back of Ed's neck stood on end as though there was static electricity coursing through the air. He sat up straight, ignoring the book in his hands as it fell to the floor with a _thump_.

That _feeling..._ He knew it from somewhere...

Greg paused as he was sitting down at the table. "Ed? What's—"

But Ed was already on his feet and diving towards the Trace expert, his hands coming together to form a circle even as his shoulder rammed into the startled man's side and they both went tumbling to the ground. Ed's hands hit the floor.

The only other time he had felt that was right before Kimblee used his alchemy.

The wall of concrete rose from the floor far too slowly to block anything as the machine they'd spent the start of the shift putting together exploded into thousands of pieces.

* * *

**Honestly, I don't know how to feel about my writing recently, but I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter more than I did. The next one should be out in the next two weeks, and then I'm out of school for summer. Things should move a little more quickly then!**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	23. Revelations

**University is out for summer, so hopefully that will mean more chances for me to write, despite summer courses and work. We'll have to see!**

**Warnings:**** Aftermath of an explosion, incredible amounts of dialogue, unintentional revelations**

* * *

Grissom's heart jumped into his throat as his ears picked up a sound he had not wanted to hear in his lab ever again. He was already on his feet before the last echoes of the explosion faded from his hearing, and out the door even as he heard glass shattering and screams from down the hallway. The smell of ozone and fire permeated the air, and he followed it unerringly to the Trace lab.

_Oh no..._ His heart stopped as he saw the wreckage of the lab. Bits of paper floated in between motes of dust and the fumes of various chemicals. The glass windows were shattered, and electronics lay about the room like so much confetti and in just as many pieces. Most of the tables were either tipped on their sides or thrown down and twisted. Sparks fizzled from electrical sockets, and a fire had started by the fumigation hood.

The only thought Grissom really had was _'Well, at least it's not the same cause as last time_' before he heard a groan and his heart lurched again.

_Greg!_

He was already moving into the lab as one of the tables shifted slightly. Suddenly, it was as if something beneath it gave way, and the twisted metal sank two feet. Grissom barely registered a tiny flash of blue light before he was there, his hands lifting the table to reveal two figures beneath it. Tossing the table to the side, not caring about his surroundings—everything was ruined anyway—he knelt down to see if they were alright.

Ed's blond hair was the most colourful thing about the two, as covered in soot as it was. Greg was laying half-underneath the teen, as though he'd been tackled to the ground. Both were covered in splashes of some kind of chemical, and it looked as though the edge of Ed's coat had caught on fire. Grissom quickly reached over and patted it out with his sleeve. Ed was already rolling onto his side with a cough, rubbing the back on his head. Greg was groaning and coughing as well, his arm covering his mouth as he tried not to breathe in the fumes floating around the room.

And then Sara was at Greg's side, reaching out and grabbing his arm to haul him to his feet. Greg groaned and coughed again, but didn't fight her. She led him stumbling over the shrapnel out of the room.

Grissom didn't spare a second and reached out to grab Ed's arm as well. As he touched him, the teen whirled toward him, his eyes wide and panicked for a moment. When he registered who he was looking at he relaxed, and Grissom was able to put a hand on his elbow and help him to his feet. Just as he was upright, Ed gave a small cry and went down on one knee again, his free hand going to his chest. Grissom followed him down. Ed's face was tightened in a grimace of pain.

"Ed?" Grissom's heart was still in his throat; they had to get out of this room. Who knew what kind of poison the combined chemicals were creating in the air?

Ed's face tightened a bit more before suddenly loosening, and he took a deep breath. Grissom winced, hoping that the teen hadn't inhaled too many fumes.

"Cover your mouth," he commanded as they stood shakily once more and made their way across the room. Ed complied, grimacing at the fumes floating in the air. Soon they were out in the open and down the hallway, and Grissom turned him into a side room where Sara was already brushing the soot out of Greg's hair and examining him for injuries. The lead CSI directed Ed to sit on a couch off to the side and began to do the same.

A gash on the side of the teen's face was bleeding sluggishly, leeching blood into the collar of his leather jacket. There were pieces of glass and plastic imbedded in his hair, and the end of his braid appeared to be slightly singed. His red coat was ripped and burnt in one corner. The gloves on his hands weren't much better, and Grissom could see a few spots of red where shrapnel had imbedded itself in his flesh-and-blood limb.

Ed looked slightly dazed as the CSI fetched a first aid kit from the cupboard off to the side. By the time he got back, though, the teen's golden eyes were clearing, and he was already removing his own gloves with a grimace. Grissom flipped open the first aid kit and pulled out a bottle of disinfectant.

"I can do that," Ed said stubbornly, holding out his hand for the bottle. Grissom looked in his eyes for a moment and then handed it over, satisfied that he was fully coherent. As Ed began to carefully remove shrapnel from his left hand with his surprisingly steady automail hand, Grissom went to work on the cut on his face.

As he taped series of butterfly bandages over the newly cleaned gash, Ed fumbled with the gauze he was trying to wrap around his hand. Grissom took it from the teen's barely-protesting grip and did it for him. Ed made an aggravated noise and deftly undid the braid in his hair with his automail hand, running the metal digits through it. Dust and bits of plastic rained down onto the floor.

Grissom finished tying off the gauze and looked up in Ed's face. "Ed, I need you to answer a few questions. Can you do that?"

The teen closed his eyes briefly before nodding.

"Are you dizzy at all?" A shake of the head. "Nauseous?" Another shake. "Headache?" None. The CSI sighed in relief. Perhaps he hadn't inhaled as much of the fumes as he'd feared. "Is there anywhere else that you're hurt?"

Ed grimaced, and his hand came up unconsciously to rub at the area just beneath his left collarbone. A red flag immediately went up in Grissom's mind. "What happened there?" he asked in concern. Ed blinked and looked down at his hand, before snatching it away and shaking his head.

"Nothing," the teen hedged, his voice scratchy from inhaling dust.

"That's not nothing."

"It really is," Ed insisted with a grimace. "Just... a phantom pain."

Grissom's eyebrows came together. "From what?"

Ed shrugged. "Something earlier. It only lasted a few seconds."

The CSI's mind went back to the teen's collapse in the wreck of the lab. "Any idea what caused it?" he asked, already intent on getting him looked over in a hospital.

Ed rolled his shoulders. "Probably hit the floor wrong. It's fine now." His head suddenly came up. "How's Greg?"

Grissom looked over at where Sara was busy talking softly with the Trace expert. He was relieved to see that Greg's eyes were focussed and he seemed to be alright, besides a few minor injuries. "He's fine."

Ed sighed in relief. "That's good. I wasn't sure I was fast enough."

The older man looked at him sharply. "Fast enough for what?"

Ed shifted uncomfortably. "To make sure he got down in time."

Grissom narrowed his eyes and took a seat in a chair across from Ed instead of kneeling in front of him. "I think you should probably tell me what happened."

Ed sighed and leaned back. "It was a bomb."

"I gathered that."

The blonde rolled his eyes. "Yeah, like the damn explosion wasn't a big enough clue."

"What caused it?"

Ed scratched his head, dislodging more dust. "That new machine Greg and I finished putting together this morning. The last part finally came in, and I helped him assemble it."

Grissom tried to ignore the instant alarm that went off in his head._ Ed helped put together the machine that caused the explosion._ Stubbornly, he pushed that suspicious thought away. He didn't have all the facts. There was no logic in pointing fingers until he knew exactly what had happened and, more importantly, _how._

"The thing made a noise a few minutes ago, but Greg said he didn't have anything in it, and fiddled with the buttons a bit. He was back at the table he was working at when the bomb went off. I got him onto the floor before the table took his head off."

"It just exploded?" Grissom asked incredulously.

Ed shrugged. "Maybe it short-circuited or something."

Grissom rubbed his forehead. "That seems unlikely. Short circuits don't cause explosions."

"We might have put it together wrong. We had a little trouble with it, but Greg said it was working fine earlier."

The CSI looked up at Ed through his fingers, fixing him with a stern stare. "Let's hope that's not the case, because it probably wouldn't end well for either of you."

* * *

Greg rubbed his face with both hands as he leaned back in the hospital waiting room chair. With a near-silent sigh, he closed his eyes. Visions of flashing red and an impossible force throwing him back ran through his mind, and he shook them away before groaning.

This was the second time his lab had blown up. If he actually put some kind of stock in religious beliefs, he would have said Fate was out to get him. The only upside he could think of for this explosion was that he wasn't actually hospitalized this time—though it had been a near thing.

With a grimace, he rubbed his shoulder. Of course, he'd been shocked when Ed had bowled him over, but that had been nothing on the fact that the machine they'd put together had _blown up_ and scattered his lab into millions of pieces. It had been such a weird sense of déjà vu that he'd actually expected to go flying through a glass wall again.

But instead he'd been pinned under a surprisingly heavy teen as the _floor rose up to block the explosion._

He would have been tempted to blame situational insanity or the concept of things just 'happening too fast'—if it hadn't been for the fact that after the explosion had faded, the wall... floor... whatever it could be called had still been there. It had actually prevented the both of them from being crushed under a lab table or torn to bits by its twisted edges. And then he'd watched as Ed did something with his hands to make a blue light flare, and the floor had flowed back into itself and returned completely to normal, as though it had never moved.

Greg was still tempted to believe he'd been hallucinating.

The door at the end of the room clicked, and Greg sat up as Brass and Ed came out. Ed was rubbing his chest with a grimace and complaining.

"I _told_ you nothing was wrong," he grumbled as he snatched up his coat from where it was slung over the edge of the chair next to Greg. "But no, you have to let them poke at me to figure out what I already knew."

"Better safe than sorry, kid," Brass said gruffly. Ed scowled.

"I'm not a _kid_."

"Sure look like one to me."

"Like hell I do!"

"Well, obviously you're okay if you can shout like that, squirt."

"Who're you calling—"

"Guys," Greg interrupted, rubbing his head. "Can we just go?" He was tired. His ears were ringing. His lab had just gone up in flames. And he was ready to just go to bed and pretend none of this had happened.

Ed stopped mid-shout and snapped his mouth shut, giving Greg a once-over. The Trace expert shifted uncomfortably under the sharp golden gaze.

"You alright?" the teen asked in that voice that Greg usually only associated with Grissom at his wisest. It was surreal hearing it come from a sixteen-year-old's mouth.

"As good as you'd expect," he replied with a shrug, before he winced at the movement in his bruised shoulder. Ed grimaced.

"Sorry about that," he apologized. "I didn't mean for you to hit the ground so hard."

Greg shook his head. "No, it's nothing. You probably saved my life."

Ed opened his mouth to reply, before Brass interrupted.

"Alright, we done with the reassurances? We have to get back before someone else screws something up and I have to fix it."

Ed and Greg shared a look, both rolling their eyes at the same time, before following the detective out of the hospital.

* * *

The break room was silent as the two young men sat across from each other. Greg leaned back in his chair, staring up at the ceiling. Ed's arms were crossed on the table, his head lying on top of them. His eyes were closed, and Greg was honestly curious if he was sleeping or not. Not that he would begrudge him, but the Trace expert knew he himself wouldn't be getting any sleep for awhile. With his luck, as soon as he closed his eyes, the other CSIs would come knocking on the door, finished with the wreckage of the lab and wanting to ask him about all of the nonexistent details he knew about the explosion.

He sighed, putting his arms behind his head. Ed shifted slightly and looked up with a somewhat bleary glare.

"You're doing a lot of sighing. I'm trying to sleep here." Greg rolled his eyes, but didn't deign to respond. Ed grumbled incoherently and sat up straight, bringing his booted feet up to rest on the table. "So what's your take on the whole thing?"

Greg leaned forward and put his elbows on the table, resting his chin in his hands. "To be honest? I have no idea. Something like this happened about a year ago—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Ed held up a forestalling hand. "You mean this has happened before?"

"Yeah, but not quite like this. It was a stupid mistake. Someone left a chemical under the fumigation hood and it turned out to be explosive. I ended up being hospitalized for about two weeks on that one."

Ed's eyebrows rose. "And you don't think it was something similar this time?"

Greg shook his head. "It was from a machine we'd just put together. There was no way it could have been misplaced evidence or anything like that. It was probably a mechanical error." He shoved down the sudden thought that Ed had helped him with the machine; who's to say he didn't tamper with it? _Can't start thinking like that,_ he told himself. _Ed's been trustworthy so far. And if Grissom trusts him, I do too. _But that didn't stop the seed of doubt from being planted. To avoid it, he shook his head and turned to something else."If you hadn't pushed me down, I probably would have ended up just as bad as last time, if not worse."

Ed averted his eyes and rubbed the back of his head. "Well, I couldn't just let you stand there and get blown to bits," he mumbled. Greg winced at the unfortunate wording; he'd just finished going over most of the Melissa Karhold case. Being blown to bits wasn't something he wanted to think about right now.

"You reacted so quickly. In fact..." he rubbed his nose. "You were moving before it exploded."

Ed shook his head. "You're probably imagining things," he hedged, but Greg could see the clear avoidance in his bearing. The suspicion in his mind involuntarily went up a notch.

"Yes, you did," he insisted. "It was like you knew it was going to explode." He tried not to make it sound like an accusation, but he couldn't change the fact that it basically was.

He could hear Ed's teeth grinding as he knuckled his eye. "I..." He sighed explosively and dropped the denial. Both knew the truth. "I didn't really _know_. It was just... a feeling, you know?"

Greg shook his head. "If I got feelings whenever something was going to explode, I wouldn't have ended up in the hospital last time," he joked, trying to lighten the mood. It didn't really work.

Ed sighed again. "It's just... Back home, there was this Lieutenant Colonel who..." He shrugged. "He liked to make things blow up." Greg's eyebrows went up, but he didn't interrupt. "I was around his explosions a lot in past year. When you're always waiting for something to blow up, you start to get this _feeling_ in the air. It's like static at the back of my neck."

"I... see..." Greg deadpanned, even though he really didn't. It sounded like some kind of psychic thing, actually. Not that there was anything wrong with psychic things, but he always made sure to maintain at least a modicum of healthy disbelief. Grissom had taught him _something_, at least.

Then part of what Ed had said clicked. "Lieutenant-Colonel?"

Ed nodded. "Yeah. He went rogue a few years ago. They had to lock him away for awhile. Then some corrupted idiots decided to reinstate him, even knowing the kind of mass-murdering psycho he was. _That _was a mess."

Greg stared at the blonde as though seeing him for the first time. "You're in the military?" he asked softly in disbelief.

Ed's eyes flew up to meet his even as he swore under his breath. "No, I just... I dealt with them a lot." But Greg could already read the truth in his eyes. The teen quickly ducked his head and fisted his hands on his forehead.

"But you're sixteen! Why would they let someone your age into the military?" He was still trying to deny it in his head. If Ed kept saying he wasn't, maybe Greg would start to believe it too.

But Ed's next mumble shot all of the denials out of his mind.

"What?" He couldn't have heard that. _Couldn't_ have. There was _no_ _way_.

"I was twelve when I joined," Ed repeated slightly louder, meeting the Trace expert's eyes again.

"_What_?" He tried not to shout, and it ended up coming out as a squeak that reminded him of his early teen years when his voice was changing. It had been funny then; it wasn't funny now. "What kind of military recruits _twelve year olds?_"

Ed grimaced and took his feet down off of the table, leaning forward over it and fixing Greg with a hard stare. "I wasn't recruited. I joined of my own free will. Well..." Here he snorted slightly. "I had a little bit of prodding, but it was still my choice."

"You were _twelve_! What could have possibly made you want to join the army, of all things? And why would they ever let you in? It's against the constitution! Child soldiers are illegal in almost every country!" By this time his hands were in the air and he was working himself into a fully-fledged bought of righteous anger. Ed's explosive sigh stopped him short as the blonde held out his hand in a fist.

"Alright. One," he held up a finger, "would you people _stop judging me_ based on my age? It has no bearing on anything about me." Greg opened his mouth to respond, but Ed was still talking, raising a second finger. "Two: I joined for very personal reasons that have nothing do with anyone here, so I'll keep those to myself. I couldn't have done what I had to without the resources the military provided me with. Three: I joined a special branch where age isn't a determining factor. Only skill and the ability to take orders. And I'll have you know that I had both my brother and a group of older soldiers willing to vouch for me. They looked after me just as well as anyone else would have."

Greg was flabbergasted, but he managed to spit out the first thing that popped into his mind. "A special branch? What kind of special branch?"

"One that had more to do with science and research than with actual military fighting. I just had to get recertified every year and be ready to go to war if the country ever came to that." He grimaced. "Unfortunately, it was never really a peaceful place. Colonel Mustang tried to keep me out of the larger battles, but by the end there was really no avoiding them."

"A Colonel took specific interest in you?"

Ed nodded. "He was really the closest thing to a father figure I had." The admission seemed to pain him, but he moved on. "Anyway, he needed an excuse for the high-ups why he was sending a Major away from Central all the time. He used my age as a basis for keeping me out of conflicts and doing individual assignments instead."

"_Major_?" Greg was gaping and he knew it. He seemed to be doing that far too many times during this conversation. His mind was currently on hold as he tried to assimilate too much completely unbelievable information.

Ed ran his hands over his face and sighed. Then he reached into his pocket and pulled out a large silver object, which he tossed on the table between them. It was a heavy silver pocket watch. On its front was what looked like a two-legged dragon intertwined with a diamond and a hexagon. Greg picked it up hesitantly.

"That's the watch every state... researcher is given when they pass the entrance exam and are enlisted. The rank of Major just comes with the job title."

Greg ran his fingers over the well-wrought design. He felt as though the frown on his face was going to become a permanent fixture. "Why would they make you a Major just for passing an entrance exam? And why would they give you a pocket watch for it?"

"It's a really intense exam," Ed said enigmatically. "And the watch is pretty much like an ID badge; only we have them, and they allow us access to research materials and funding. Not to mention they identify us easily." He grimaced. "For better or for worse, really."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

Ed shrugged. "A lot of people don't really think so highly of us. They call us dogs of the military."

"For _researching_?"

"I guess you could say that." Ed reached out and took the watch from Greg before he could try and open it, slipping it back into his pocket. "Anyway, it doesn't matter anymore. There's probably not much of it left now."

"Why? What happened?"

The teen shook his head. "A lot of shit. I left before I could find out exactly how everything turned out, but with the way it was going..." His jaw clenched. "Well. I probably won't find out anyway, unless I can find my way home somehow."

"Where's home?"

"Amestris."

Greg's frown deepened. "I've never heard of it."

Ed snorted. "Well, no one here seems to have, either, so it's kind of hard to figure out how to get there."

He hesitated before asking, but he couldn't really resist. "What's it like?"

Ed paused. "...A lot of civil disputes. There are a few minorities that are oppressed, and they rise up every few years. About fourteen years ago there was a war in an area called Ishbal that pretty much wiped out the entire people. It lasted seven years." He picked at something invisible on his torn glove. "But... despite that, it's a beautiful place. Really beautiful. My hometown, Risembool, is sort of a farm settlement, but it's generally peaceful. The people are amazing..." His eyes stared at something in the middle distance, and Greg held his breath, unwilling to interrupt the obvious emotions playing across the teen's face. After a moment, Ed shook himself. "I just have to find my brother and get home."

Greg nodded hesitantly. He could understand that, but he had no idea how Ed was going to go about doing either of those things**. **The wistful look the teen's eyes had gained prompted him to change the subject in some way.

"So... This special research branch of the military... Is that where you learned how to do the thing with the floor?"

Ed's gaze suddenly sharpened. "The what?"

"The floor thing." Greg spread his hands in front of him and gestured up towards the ceiling, as though raising something out of the table. "You know, where you made it come out of the ground to make a wall."

The blonde looked toward the door. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Greg sighed. "Look, you can't just keep denying everything people learn about you." Ed merely crossed his arms in front of his chest stubbornly. The Trace expert rubbed his forehead. He wasn't good with this kind of thing; getting answers from people without making them mad was really Grissom's area. But he was the one who was here now, so he had to figure out something.

Silence reigned for a minute before Ed suddenly mumbled under his breath.

"What?"

"My business is my own. I don't need everybody analyzing everything I say and do."

Greg's eyebrows came together. Suddenly, he realized what the problem probably was.

"You know, I don't have to tell anyone if you don't want me to," he reassured. At this point, he wasn't actually sure if he could keep that promise; after all, if Ed had a hand in the explosion and the cases they were working on... But he couldn't very well tell Ed that. He was trying to reassure the kid, not push him away further. And if he really had nothing to do with it, then it wasn't Greg's place to be a gossip.

Ed fixed him with a piercing stare. "Sure. You're part of a crime lab. It makes sense that you would be perfectly willing to keep the secrets of a person who you've only known for two weeks and was a suspect in one of your cases up until a week ago." Even the densest of people would not have missed the sarcasm in his tone.

"Make sense to me," Greg retorted. Ed snorted, and the Trace expert sighed. "Ed, I'm not trying to interrogate you. I'm honestly curious. And if it doesn't pertain directly to my job or a case I'm working then I'm perfectly entitled to keeping my own secrets. And yours."

Ed was looking off to the side again, and he blew his bangs out of his face. "And I'm supposed to trust you why?"

Greg wouldn't admit that that hurt, but it did. "Why should _I_ trust _you_?"

The teen huffed a laugh. "Touché." He rubbed his face with a sigh and leaned back in the chair. "I figured you were too out of it to notice."

Greg blinked at the sudden voluntary information. "To notice a piece of the floor turning into a wall in front of me?" He snorted. "Not likely."

Ed rolled his eyes.

Abruptly, a thought occurred to him. "When you got out of the station last week... The guard kept saying something about the floor turning into paste and pinning him to a wall. We thought he was just hallucinating or something..." His eyes widened at Ed's guilty look. "That actually happened!"

Ed rubbed the back of his head. "I didn't think they'd start calling him _crazy _or something..."

Greg just stared with wide eyes. "You actually _did_ something like that? _How_?"

"It's just... science, really," the teen said evasively.

"Well it's not any kind of science I've ever seen before. How did you do it? Where'd you learn? Are you using some kind of machine? Nanotechnology?"

Ed blinked at him. "Um... It's just something I learned to do when I was younger. A bunch of people at home can do it."

"But how does it work? What can it do? It's like magic, making cement turn into a fluid like that. How can you change its state? And manipulate it? How—?" Golden eyes were staring at him as more questions poured from his mouth. Greg stopped in mid-sentence, giving him a sheepish smile. "Sorry. But seriously, how do you do it?"

Ed shrugged nonchalantly. "I just convert something in one form to another form with the same basic properties. Science, not magic. Magic doesn't exist."

It didn't take a genius to figure out that Ed was saying absolutely nothing helpful. Greg sighed. _This kid's almost as good at being cryptic as Gris is..._ he thought irritably. "But _how_?"

Ed opened his mouth to say something incomprehensible again, but the door opening interrupted him. Warrick peeked into the room, his clothes somewhat dusty and a smear of ash across his face. It was obvious he had just been in the wreckage of the lab.

"Hey, Greg, Gris wants to ask you a few questions about what happened. We're still trying to clean everything up in there."

Greg pursed his lips, but he knew that he had to help in some way. "We'll talk after, okay?" he said to Ed. The teen merely nodded, and Greg tried to ignore the slight, calculated relief that was shining in those eyes as he turned and followed Warrick out.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and the next one should be out in about two weeks or so. If I can get some more productivity going, it might be sooner. We'll have to see.**

**I'd just like to make a really quick note about how there were 1188 reviews when I posted this chapter, and besides that making me want to keysmash in joy, I couldn't help but think about the recent episode of Touch I watched and having my mind blown just a bit. **

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	24. Our Dreary Duty

**I apologize for the long wait; the beginning of my summer turned out to be substantially busier than I had expected, and I've barely had a moment to sit down and think about writing. Hopefully this chapter is good enough to make up for it!**

**Warnings: ****Some language, mutual anger and baiting, suspicion, monotonous evidence gathering**

**Disclaimer: ****If I owned either of these series, I wouldn't have to be working and the chapters would come out a lot faster.**

* * *

Grissom picked apart the tattered remains of the machine that had caused this whole mess. Behind him, he could hear Warrick and Nick sifting through what was left of the evidence that had been stored on the far side of the room. Catherine was working with what had been on the center table before it had been flipped. Sara was in the corner, running a fan through the room to help get rid of the fumes. The HAZMAT team had determined that the combination of chemicals floating in the air wasn't necessarily poisonous, but it would be best if it was cleared out before anyone did too much extended work in the wreckage. They had only gotten in here in the last five minutes, after it had been declared occupationally safe.

The CSI sighed. It was unlikely that much of the evidence could be recovered. The scene was eerily reminiscent of the explosion they had suffered last year, except for the fact that they weren't worried sick over the health of one of their own this time. That was a small relief—but only a very, very small one.

"I don't know if much of this is salvageable..." Catherine said regretfully from behind him. He looked back to see her holding up a broken beaker at eye level, showing the muddied drops of reddish liquid within.

Grissom shook his head. "Just find and bag what you can." She nodded, her eyes dark, and packed the beaker into a plastic bag, adding it to the growing pile of compromised evidence to her right. The older man sighed and turned back to the chromatograph's ruins. His gloved hands sifted through the plastic, bagging chunks. They would send all of it over to another room, and Nick and Warrick would probably be given the task of trying to roughly piece it together and figure out what had caused it to explode.

He paused and wiped his forehead on his sleeve, his mind once more swerving into the territory of suspicion.

_Ed didn't do it_, he told himself firmly. _He's not a suspect. He would have no reason to try and compromise evidence. It would be too obvious. Everyone knows he helped Greg put the machine together. Besides which, Greg would have noticed if he'd done anything with it. You can't just put in a piece wrong and make something explode._ And explode it had. Violently. Grissom had never seen anything short of a true bomb cause this much devastation. Pieces from the machine were scattered across the room and even out into the adjacent hallways. A malfunction wouldn't have done something like that.

Then a thought occurred to him.

_Ed can somehow change things at will..._

His heart gave a sickening lurch. No. There was no way. He'd known Ed for two weeks already. He had a handle on the teen's character and personality, and something like this was just not something he would do. Besides, why would he tackle Greg to the ground if he had planted the bomb on purpose?

But if he only wanted to get rid of the evidence...

Grissom had been fooled before. It could happen again.

He shook his head, but the thought would not be dislodged. Ed could have done it. He had motive, if he was actually involved in the murders and didn't want them to find out. He had a method. He was the prime suspect. It was entirely logical.

So why did it make him feel like throwing up?

* * *

Ed blinked awake as a hand landed on his shoulder. He brought his head up from where it was resting on his folded arms to see Catherine standing above him. Rubbing his eyes, he yawned. "Is it time to leave now?"

Catherine's eyes were dark as she shook her head. Ed's eyebrows came together.

"What time is it?"

"Eight o'clock."

He cracked his back. "Are you staying here to finish investigating? I can go sleep on the couch if you want." He nodded his head toward the sofa against the wall near the fridge.

Catherine sighed and shook her head. "No." She paused, as though preparing herself to deliver bad news. Ed tensed.

"What?"

"...A detective's waiting in the front room. They want to talk to you."

Ed's eyes narrowed. "Why?"

"They just want to ask you a few questions," she hedged, but something in her eyes said it was more than that.

Ed put two and two together and got four.

"You think _I _blew up the lab?" he asked incredulously.

Catherine didn't respond, but her lips tightened. She nodded toward the door, telling him that it was time to go. Gritting his teeth, Ed stood, not caring that the chair he sat in fell back onto the floor with a clatter. The anger was already rising in him like a tide. He knew it was irrational; hell, in their positions he'd be suspecting him, too. But it was the principle of the thing; _every single time _something went wrong, people blamed him. Oh, your lab blew up? Don't forget to blame Ed. Oh, that building collapsed? Ed's fault. Oh, that revolution led to a bloody civil war in which hundreds of people died? Must have been Edward Elric. It's always Edward Elric, after all.

Honestly, did the past two weeks of staying with Catherine and spending time with Greg and generally being on his best behaviour mean _nothing_?

He gritted his teeth as Catherine led him into one of the small interrogation rooms at the lab. He got the strangest sense of déjà vu as he sat in the chair across from a detective he hadn't seen before. And it wasn't the good kind of déjà vu. Grissom was leaning against the wall behind the detective, and Ed spared him a glare of betrayal before turning it on the officer.

"What do you want?" he growled, hands fisted under the table. The detective merely raised an eyebrow.

"A little defensive, Mr. Elric?"

Ed ground his teeth together, but didn't say anything. He knew the drill. He was being baited, and anything he said right now would probably be taken in the entirely wrong way, and act against him in the end anyway.

"No need to be angry. We just want to ask you a few questions about the explosion in the lab," the officer said nonchalantly. "Do you know anything about what caused it?"

The teen shook his head sharply. "All I know is that that machine in the corner decided to self-destruct."

"The machine you and Mr. Sanders had just finished putting together a few hours earlier?"

"Yeah," Ed agreed grudgingly. He could already tell where this was going, and he didn't like it. The fact that Grissom was just standing there, watching, made him all the more irritable. At least they hadn't decided to cuff him, but if they ended up putting him in a cell again, _so help him..._

"How did you do that? Were all of the parts already there?"

"The last box of stuff had just arrived, and the rest of it was already partially assembled."

The officer leaned his chin on a fist. "When you were assembling it, did Mr. Sanders ever... leave the room or turn his back to do something else?"

Ed blinked, and then his eyes narrowed. "No. He was the one doing most of the assembling, and I read him the instructions."

"Are you sure?" The detective's eyes were sharp and searching. "You didn't add anything to the machine that didn't belong there?"

He was sure his grinding teeth could be heard from across the room. "_No_, because I didn't make the stupid thing explode!" he snapped. "Why would I do something like that?"

The detective shuffled a few papers that were resting on the table in front of him, as though this were a perfectly normal conversation and he hadn't just accused Ed of blowing up part of the crime lab. Ed's eye began to twitch, and the anger reared its head inside him.

"Did you notice anything odd about any of the pieces? Anything that was out of place?"

He swallowed down his automatic retort of 'Go to hell!' and rallied himself. He didn't want to lose his temper (again). Doing so always got him in trouble. After a moment, he closed his eyes and honestly thought about the question. Finally, he sighed, letting the tension leave his body with the breath as Al had taught him to do. "We had a little bit of trouble with the last piece, but the only thing we found was a latch that hadn't been closed properly on another piece. That was it."

The detective studied him closely before jotting something on the paper in front of him. "Mr. Sanders says that you tackled him to the ground before the explosion went off. How did you know it was going to happen?"

Ed gave an aggrieved groan. "I _didn't_, and if you had asked him that, he would have told you the same. I just had a feeling."

"A feeling." The way he said it made the idea sound like the most absurd concept in the world.

"Yes, a _feeling_," Ed growled. "Just like the feeling that I'm getting right now that's saying you're being an asshole!"

The officer merely gave him a look and wrote something else down on his paper. Ed ground his teeth together.

"I didn't set up that bomb," he said darkly. "I didn't know anything about it. I was reading my damn book when I got the feeling that something was wrong. The machine was making weird noises anyway. I've seen bombs go off before, and I know what they feel like before they do." Even to his own ears, it sounded feeble, but he had no way of convincing them otherwise, even if it was the truth. The officer obviously picked up on it.

"You know what _I_ feel right now, Mr. Elric?" Ed glared at him, daring him to go on. The man merely raised his eyebrow. "I feel like you're trying to cover something. And that's a feeling I know well."

Ed was opening his mouth to snap out an angry retort when Grissom's soft voice broke in.

"Garllind, that's enough," he said quietly, and the detective turned to look at him. "He was caught in the explosion as well. I think it's only right that we let him to rest for awhile before asking him anything more."

It spoke volumes about Grissom's authority that the man didn't talk back or insist that he wasn't finished, even though he clearly wasn't. The disapproval of the detective's approach was written in the CSI's eyes, but Ed didn't give him credit for it. If he was so displeased with the officer's methods, why didn't he intervene sooner?

Grissom motioned for the detective to follow him out of the room. With a last dark look at Ed—_why are the people in law-keeping always out to get me? _Ed groused in his mind—the man stood and left, the door closing behind him with a soft _click_.

* * *

"_House arrest_? Seriously?" Ed ran a hand through his hair in agitation as he tugged at the seat belt across his chest. Catherine didn't deign to look over at him, instead keeping her eyes fixed on the road. Ed didn't have to see her expression to know it was more closed off than it had been earlier.

_Is everyone going to start treating me like a suspect again?_ He wondered in annoyance.

"Seriously," she said. "And you're going to abide by it."

"What, they don't think the big, scary teenaged explosives expert is going to blow up your house or something?" he growled sarcastically under his breath. Catherine gave him a sharp look.

"Don't joke about things like that, Ed." She sighed and focused on the road again. "Regardless of whether or not you're the one who planted the bomb—and I'm not saying you _are_," she insisted as he snorted, "you can't be hanging around the lab anymore, at least for a couple of days. A lot of evidence has been compromised, and they need someone to blame." Her expression tightened for a moment, before relaxing. "There's no grounds yet for an arrest. You're lucky they haven't taken you into custody."

"They may as well have," he muttered, crossing his arms and looking out the window. Catherine sighed.

"At least you'll have something to do at my place. There are plenty of books, and I know you're collected a number of Doc's books over the last few days. And there's the TV, if you get really bored. The only difference is that you'll have officers stationed at the house to make sure you don't leave."

He glared out the window at the passing cars. The sun was just starting to rise over the tops of the buildings around him; it was much later than they would usually be heading back, but the CSIs had all been required to stay later in order to salvage as much of the wrecked lab as possible. It was now nearly noon, and everyone was over tired and short-tempered. "It's still like being in a cell," he grumbled. "I can't leave if I want to."

Catherine didn't say anything more, though the unspoken '_That's your own fault' _hovered in the air. He gritted his teeth, because it wasn't_ fair_. Being in the wrong place at the wrong time shouldn't automatically make you a suspect. It wasn't his fault Greg had wanted his help with the machine. He honestly hadn't wanted to in the beginning, anyway. If anything they should be putting _Greg_ under house arrest!

He recognized the thoughts for what they were, and shook his head to clear them away. He was letting his temper get the better of him. What he needed now was sleep. Sleep, then food, _then _try and figure out how to prove his innocence to a bunch of people who were already convinced he'd done it.

They pulled into the driveway of Catherine's house. Ed scowled as he got out of the vehicle, seeing a police car pull up to the curb behind them and two officers climbing out. Obviously they were his 'guards' for the next few days. Or however long this house arrest lasted.

Catherine opened the door with a sigh and motioned Ed in. Feeling like he was giving away the last vestiges of his freedom, he stepped over the threshold, and the door closed behind them.

* * *

Grissom rubbed his face as he finished towelling his hair dry. Stepping into his living room, he took a seat on the couch and put his hand in his hands, massaging his temples.

When had things suddenly become so complicated? This morning they'd been well on their way to finishing the Hollister case, and the last few samples of evidence had been ready to go off to court with Nick in three days.

Now there was none of it left.

The evidence they'd collected in the past week had almost all been contaminated or destroyed. The textile samples Greg was working with had gone up in flames. The records of analyses had survived, thank god, in the near-indestructible filing cabinet that they were kept in. They had learned at least that much from last year's explosion. Equipment around the room had been totalled; plastic and metal scraps littered the floor. The tables were twisted and probably barely usable anymore. The blast from this explosion had been so much more devastating than last year's.

_It was a deliberate bomb this time. _

Grissom rubbed his forehead as he sifted through the last of the rubble. Anything possibly incriminating or salvageable had been collected and was being kept in an examination room down the hall. The ruined tables and any large pieces of equipment had been lined outside in the hallway behind a tarp to prevent anyone from nearing them.

With a sigh, the lead CSI stood. He gave the room a last once-over and shook his head. He'd hoped he'd never have to see a scene like this ever again. But wishing things wouldn't help him much; he had to instead take action, try and clean this up as much as possible.

He turned his head at a crunch of glass from the other side of the room, and saw Greg stepping through one of the shattered glass panes into the lab. A look of pain crossed the younger man's face as he surveyed what was left of his much-beloved work space, before he squared his shoulders and stepped up to his superior.

"So what's the damage?" he asked in a tight tone. Nothing remained right now of the happy-go-lucky attitude he usually portrayed.

Grissom sighed. "I've got Nick and Warrick working on putting together the machine that was the source of the explosion. Sara's in the other lab sifting through evidence." He ran a hand through his hair. "There's probably not much that's salvageable, and even if it is it won't be viable for convictions anymore."

Greg's face tightened. "I can't believe it happened again..." he muttered. "You'd think once would be enough."

The older man shook his head. "We work in a crime lab. We make a lot of enemies. It's a hazard of the job." He put a hand on Greg's shoulder. "But we'll get through this, just like last time. I'm just glad you're alright." The Trace expert closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.

"So I heard you put Ed under house arrest?"

Grissom pushed his glasses up his nose and frowned. "Yes. There wasn't any other option. He's now a suspect in a pending investigation, instead of just a material witness. Ecklie doesn't want him anywhere near the lab for at least three days—or longer, if he can manage it. And..." he paused. "And I think I agree with him on this one."

Greg fixed him with a stare. "You think Ed did it."

"I can't be sure one way or the other. It's better to be safe." But he knew that his hesitation gave away his thoughts on the matter. He _did_ think Ed might have done it. 'Might' being the key word, but even that amount of doubt made him wary. "What do you think? I know the detective asked you some questions, but I want to hear your opinion."

Greg sighed. "Honestly? ...I don't know." He ran a hand through his hair in agitation. "He had the perfect opportunity to do it, but I just... I get the feeling that he didn't, even if there's motive. He just doesn't seem like the type to me."

"Well, you have spent the most time with him in the past week. You probably have a relatively good judge of his character."

Greg shrugged. "I don't know. I think... it's probably best to just assume nothing and see what the investigation turns up."

Grissom gave him a small smile. "That's exactly right." Maybe Greg _was_ retaining what he'd tried to teach him. Perhaps he'd make a good CSI yet.

Something glinting on the floor caught his eye, and he reached down and pulled a piece of twisted metal and glass from under a broken bottle. "I think this is yours," he said amusedly, holding it out to his subordinate.

Greg groaned as he took the completely destroyed iPod. "Aw man, this was only a month old!" he lamented. Grissom chuckled and patted him on the back.

"Maybe explosive damage is covered under the care plan," he suggested. Greg merely rolled his eyes and made his way out of the lab.

Once the younger man was out of sight, Grissom let out a sigh. He was truly glad that Greg was alright enough to joke with him, but the wreckage around him still weighed heavily on his heart. Turning back to the room at large, he prepared to finish the dreary duty of cleaning up the remains of their chances at solving any recent cases.

* * *

Sara sighed as she sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. She let the feeling of discouragement wash over her as she brushed her hair back from her face and closed her eyes. Visions of contaminated evidence swam in front of her closed lids, and she let out a groan of frustration.

They'd been at it for nearly twenty-four hours now, trying to save anything that could still be viable. As soon as Catherine had finished dropping Ed off at her house with his new police escort, she'd returned and joined Sara in the new evidence room. They'd spent nearly every moment of the past day going through everything that the team had found in the wreckage of the lab, trying to find anything usable as quickly as possible—it was very likely that some of it was time-sensitive and would become entirely contaminated before they got around to it. But, in between two breaks for quick power naps and three for five-minute meals, they had only found six pieces of evidence that were salvageable. Two were for the Hollister case, and Catherine seemed confident that they would still be usable for a conviction, combined with their previous documentation. Three were disconnected fibre samples from three minor cases the week before. And the last...

The last was the DNA sample they'd found under Melissa Karhold's nails.

Despite the utter lack of anything to match it to and the dearth of any other evidence, that one sample had made Sara's heart leap in her chest. It was the only solid evidence they had on the serial killer they'd been chasing for nearly a month now. In the rare case that Ed was responsible for the bomb—or in the slightly less rare case that it was somehow initiated by the seemingly-omniscient perp—then they hopefully hadn't achieved what they'd sought to do. Yes, the lab was in shambles and evidence had disappeared from every case, making a number of them unsolvable... But the one case that was most likely to be responsible for it was the one that they still had the sample for.

It was a small consolation for the hours they had spent sifting through bits of _everything_ in an attempt to find _anything_. It was like the age-old adage of trying to find a needle in a haystack—except that the needle was hay-coloured and about the size of a staple.

Catherine knocked on the door, and Sara motioned for her to come in. The older woman took a seat in the chair in front of the desk with a sigh.

"Anything?"

Catherine shook her head. "There's only one more box of samples to go through, but... I have a feeling there's not much more to find."

Sara closed her eyes and put her face in her hands. The frustration and discouragement they were both feeling radiated through the office, lending a heavy quality to the air. Silence reigned for a good minute before she sighed and raised her head. "Well, I guess we should get at it."

"And then we go home and sleep," Catherine affirmed, and the two women stood and left the office, ignoring the tiredness that was seeping into their veins.

* * *

"And he expects us to actually be able to put this thing together?" Warrick scoffed as he tossed a palm-sized scrap of melted plastic back into the bin in frustration. Nick gave him a sympathetic look and continued to try and lay out other pieces of black plastic on the table in a way that made sense.

"We have to at least try."

Warrick rolled his eyes and threw his hands up. "We've been trying for over three hours, Nick," he groused. "Sifting through all that crap was bad enough, but then trying to put it together? It doesn't work. It's like trying to build a puzzle when some pieces are ripped in half and the rest are either missing or from another puzzle."

Nick sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I know, but we start somewhere."

Warrick sat heavily on a chair by the table he was working at. "I just want to go home, turn on my TV, and watch some mindless football for a few hours."

"You and me both." Nick took a seat next to his long-time friend and rested his elbows on his knees. "Got any theories?" he asked after awhile.

"To be honest, I think it was a plant," Warrick sighed. "There's no way a malfunction would do something like that."

Nick nodded. "So was it the machine itself... or something added _to _the machine?"

Warrick pulled out a folder that Grissom had brought him about two hours ago. "We've got the manufacturer's name and contact information. They shipped all the parts separately, because it's too large and temperamental to ship as one piece. They have a supplier in Michigan that makes all of the casing, and then one in Delaware that makes the mechanical parts."

"I would think the problem's with the mechanical side of things."

Warrick nodded and flipped a page in the file. "They sent us the shipping details when we told them what happened. Seemed eager to let us know it wasn't their fault." Both men snorted. "Looks like the first piece was shipped a month ago, and the last..." He narrowed his eyes. "It says it left the warehouse on Boxing Day."

Nick blinked. "That's over a month ago. Didn't it just get here yesterday?"

Warrick nodded. "The lab used expedited shipping to get it here, so it should have only taken about three days, a week at most..." He frowned and flipped the page over. "It says it arrived in Lakewood, Colorado two weeks ago, and left there last Tuesday."

Nick's eyebrows came together. "That makes no sense. Why would they keep it there for over a week?"

The men shared a look, and then, as one, they stood and began sifting through the bin of shrapnel that used to be a machine. Consulting the schematics, they searched for bits of the last piece that had been sent to them. If it had stayed in one place long enough for someone to have tampered with it...

It took nearly an hour to find the majority of the pieces. Nick and Warrick laid them out in a rough estimation of what the part must have looked like. Glancing between the schematic and the pieces, Nick sighed.

"It's impossible to tell if there's anything out of place," he groaned, leaning on the table. Warrick's lips tightened, and he examined the pieces closely.

"Think we're missing anything?" he asked.

Nick shrugged. "With how many tiny pieces are in there... I think it's probably likely."

They both sighed. Warrick closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead—after a minute, he opened them again and looked down at the shrapnel laid out on the table. There had to be _something_...

He blinked, and then snatched the schematic out of Nick's hand. "What's this right here?" he asked, pointing at a small rod that seemed to be half-melted against a mostly-intact but very twisted piece of metal. Nick leaned closer to get a better look and then consulted the diagram.

"That's... I don't know," he admitted. Warrick handed him the paper and leaned closer.

"It's not part of something else. It's actually attached to the metal, probably from before the explosion," he murmured. Picking up the piece, he turned it over in his hands. "Is there anything like it on the diagram?"

Nick was silent for a moment, and then he shook his head. "Maybe it's a trigger," he said quietly, a tentative spark of hope in his voice.

"If it is, what does it trigger?"

They shared a look.

With renewed fervour, Nick turned over the pieces that they'd compiled on the table, searching for other abnormalities. It took ten minutes before he suddenly gave a whoop.

"Look at this!"

Warrick leaned over to see what looked like a tiny canister—or the bits that were left of it—soldered to a round piece that they'd assumed was part of the casing.

Nick's grin was vicious. "They didn't make sure all of the evidence disappeared," he said with grim delight. "Now we know it wasn't an accident."

"I think that was already a given," Warrick pointed out with a raised eyebrow, but he too was smiling. _Finally, some progress_.

Nick held the piece close to his face, studying the canister. "So maybe a micro-bomb or something?" He turned the piece to one side. "Or it could have been chemical, though I'm not sure how it would have been activated." His eyes narrowed as he squinted at something. "...Looks like there's some kind of residue on the metal..."

The two of them shared a look before moving over to a microscope on the far side of the room. The bit of metal was easily slipped under the lens as Warrick adjusted the focus.

"Looks like scratches or something," he muttered, before he blinked and pulled away from the microscope, looking over at his partner. Nick's eyebrows came together.

"What?"

"It's an inscription."

"What does it say?"

Warrick ran an agitated hand through his hair. "_'Enjoying the game yet?'_"

* * *

**No promises, but the next chapter **_**should**_** come out in the next two weeks or so as my summer course ends and my job lightens up. **

**By the way, I have an AO3 account under my current username, for those who like to read over there. Mostly my Sherlock works so far, but once I decide I'm going to rewrite MTJAM it will be posted over there as well. (No worries, I will still post here!)**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	25. Catalyst

**Late, as usual. Damnit, RL, all I ask is to have one day to myself. ONE DAY.**

**I feel like things are going to start moving faster in the plot now, but that could just be me. And you're probably all going to hate me after this chapter.  
**

**Warnings:**** Threats, people saying one thing and meaning another, strong language (I will apologize in advance to those who dislike it—I did drop an F-bomb in this chapter. To not use it would have been out of character and somewhat lessen the severity of the situation.)**

* * *

Ed groaned as he put down the book he was reading and leaned back in the chair. He closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them and turned his head towards the window.

...Yep. They were still there.

With an aggravated sigh, he stood up from his chair and made his way into the kitchen. Honestly, he didn't know what it was about being forced to stay in the house that made him immediately want to leave it. Any other day, he would have been more than pleased to stay home from the lab if it meant he could spend a little bit more time reading Catherine's history books. He still had about a shelf worth to go through, and what he'd learned so far had been almost more fascinating than watching Greg work. Sure, it had been fun for the first few days, but after the excitement of learning something new faded, it had been a lot of the same thing every day, despite Greg's constant commentary and their verbal sparring. It didn't help that Ed was technically not allowed to touch any of the evidence anyway.

But now... Now he wasn't staying in the house of his own volition, but rather because the people in charge had deemed him a threat. Now there was a car sitting out front, housing a police officer, and another sitting calmly at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper. Now that he was forced to stay here, he suddenly didn't want to.

He spared the officer a respectful nod as he opened the refrigerator and glanced inside before pulling out the half-empty carton of orange juice and pouring himself a glass. Catherine had told him he was welcome to eat whatever he liked in the house, and he wasn't about to not take her up on that. It was the least she could do for making him stay in this stifling place.

Honestly, his feet simply itched to be outside. He didn't want to sit around reading books that had previously fascinated him; he didn't want to watch the television, even if the concept was new and strange and, frankly, amazing. He didn't even want to sleep; he'd been taking cat-naps throughout the day, too restless to actually fall into the inverted sleep schedule he'd established while staying in Vegas. Now it was nearing one o'clock in the morning, and he was getting irritable as his body tried to tell him to lie down and relax, even while his mind continued to run in agitated circles.

"Hungry?" the officer—Jonathan "Call me Jon" Felt—asked as Ed slumped into a chair at the table opposite him. The teen merely shook his head.

"Bored out of my tree, is more like," he muttered. Jon smiled slightly and shook his head.

"You know, if I were you I'd be happy for the chance to just lie around and do nothing."

"Well too bad you're not me, then," he retorted irritably as he sipped his orange juice. "I've read every single book in this damn house."

Jon just raised an eyebrow and flipped his newspaper slightly. Ed scowled at the tabletop. Obviously the man wasn't particularly inclined to conversation right now; and who would be, really? He was under house arrest, suspected of planting a bomb, and he hadn't really made any attempt so far at being anything more than civil. He just wanted to _get out of this house_ and go do... something. He wasn't sure what at this point, but anything would be better than just sitting around.

He sighed as he drained the last of the juice and set the glass down, knowing that actually acting on that impulse was more than detrimental. If he left the house now, while under guard and suspicion, then he would be casting himself in the worst possible light. If they found him, or if he ever wanted to return to the crime lab and Grissom's promised aid in finding Al, then he would never be trusted again. Not to mention that he would have to incapacitate at least one of the officers in order to get out undetected. He had to simply sit tight and hope that he was let out sometime in the near future, before he went completely insane.

Jon glanced at him over the top of his newspaper before sighing as well. "You know, I don't really enjoy this any more than you do." Ed raised an eyebrow, somewhat disbelieving. "Hey, I'm stuck watching a teenager who doesn't actually do anything out of the ordinary. Not to mention it's almost as much house arrest for me as it is for you. I can't leave until my replacement gets here, which will be another..." he consulted his watch, "six hours."

Ed put his chin in his hand and fixed the officer with a stare. If he was trying to be empathic, it was only working slightly. He still figured he'd gotten the short end of the stick here. "At least you're getting paid for it."

"True enough," Jon agreed with a chuckle. "It beats the job of manning the holding cells at the station. At least the chairs here are comfortable, and the coffee's good." He held up his mug in a mock-toast. Ed rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, next you'll be telling me that you want a cushy desk job with lots of paperwork so you can lounge around all day and procrastinate," he said, thinking back on a certain _other_ officer he knew with those tendencies.

Jon shook his head. "Nah, I prefer being out in the field. It's a lot more exciting."

"You and me both."

The officer spared him a sharp look, before shrugging. "If I wanted to sit around all day, I would have become an accountant. Or a babysitter."

Ed ignored the not-so-subtle jab and put his head down in his crossed arms on the table with a yawn. It appeared the last twenty four hours were finally catching up with him.

"You should get some sleep, Ed," Jon suggested, his mannerisms noticeably less formal after their small commiseration. "Who knows when someone will come back to get you?"

Ed shook his head stubbornly. "I'll mess up my sleep schedule if I go to bed now," he said reasonably. "Usually right now I'd be eating lunch at the lab. Being nocturnal for two weeks can do things to you."

"Tell me about it," Jon agreed. "But there's no telling when you'll be heading back, and you didn't get much shut-eye today. I'm not going to judge you for being tired."

Ed shot him a mild glare. "As if I would've cared what you thought of me," he groused good-naturedly, but he couldn't ignore the sense in what the officer was saying. With a sigh, he stood and put his glass on the kitchen counter beside the sink. "I'll decide once I finish my book," he muttered, before moving to leave the kitchen. He stopped and blinked as he nearly ran into a lithe figure, who also stopped and blinked at him.

"What are you doing up?" he asked automatically as Lindsay blinked again and slipped past him into the kitchen, murmuring a small hello to Jon.

"Getting a snack; what does it look like?" she shot back as she opened the cupboard and pulled down a box of Cheerios.

"Cereal at one in the morning isn't necessarily healthy," Jon observed wisely from the table without looking up. Lindsay shot him a small scowl before opening the box and popping a handful of O's into her mouth defiantly.

"Don't you have school tomorrow or something?" Ed asked suspiciously. "Shouldn't you be asleep?"

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sixteen, not six. I can stay up as late as I like."

"Whatever you say," he muttered with a shrug as she sat down at the table, pulling out a magazine that she had under her arm and flipping it open. Rolling his eyes, he moved back into the living room, automatically glancing out the window to see if the police car was still there. Expectedly, it was.

He sighed as he sat down in the easy chair and picked up his book once more. This was going to be a _long_ night.

* * *

The phone ringing startled all three occupants of the previously-silent house; Ed could hear Lindsay muttering a curse in the kitchen as he tried to flatten the page he'd been turning at that moment. Footsteps moved across the kitchen floor and the phone stopped in the middle of the third ring.

"Hello?"

There was silence for a moment, and he could hear her tapping her nail against the counter. "No, sorry, we already have car insurance. Yes. No thank you. Goodbye." With an exasperated sigh, the phone was returned to its base. "Stupid telemarketers. What kind of idiot calls at one in the god-damn morning?"

"They get more ballsy every year," Jon observed wisely. Lindsay gave a startled laugh, and the kitchen quieted into murmured conversation.

Five minutes later, a strangely muffled jingle started up, and Ed heard Jon give a curious grunt before the music stopped. "Helen? What's wrong?" There was a moment of silence before the officer swore quietly under his breath. "I've got to take this. It's my wife," he said, obviously to Lindsay, before Ed heard a chair scrape in the kitchen. "I'll be right back."

Jon appeared in the doorway to the living room, giving Ed a nod before continuing down the hallway to the foyer with a worried "What did Nathan do now?" into what looked like the portable phone Catherine carried around.

A second after that, the house phone rang again.

"What the _hell_?" Lindsay cried from the kitchen in aggravation. "It's like frickin' Grand Central Station!" Ed couldn't help but sympathize, even if he didn't get the reference. The picking up of the phone sounded somewhat more violent than before, though the greeting was only slightly unpleasant as it was forced out through lightly gritted teeth.

The silence this time was longer, and Ed's eyebrows came together as Lindsay peeked around the doorway with a frown on her face. "...Yeah." She took the phone from her ear and covered the mouthpiece. "Um... it's for you, Ed."

He blinked. A phone call for him? That was... unusual. But in the next second, he realized that it was probably Grissom or someone else from the crime lab. He hadn't expected them to call, but he wouldn't put it past the lead CSI to keep him up-to-date on what was happening with his house arrest situation, at the very least so that Ed didn't get bored and run off.

He ignored the fact that he had already been contemplating running off in the past twenty four hours and stood from his chair, putting the book down.

Lindsay handed him the phone and moved to sit at the table again, giving him a modicum of privacy. He put the handset to his ear and paused before speaking.

"Hello?"

There was silence on the other end of the phone, before a shaky voice answered him.

"Brother?"

He swore his heart stopped. As if a bucket of ice water had been dumped over his head, he felt a chill drop from his head to his feet. The colour must have blanched entirely from his face, because Lindsay's eyes widened slightly and she stopped pretending she wasn't looking at him. It felt like someone was holding his chest in a vice grip; he struggled to draw a breath. Surely... surely he'd heard wrong. His ears were playing tricks on him..

"Brother, are you there?" the shaky voice asked again, a tremulous lilt making it sound all the more pitiful. All the more real.

"Al?" he finally managed to stutter out, his voice sounded strangled even to his own ears.

There was something that sounded like something between a sigh of relief and a sob on the other end. "Ed!"

His knees went weak, and he slid down the wall until he was sitting on the floor. Al... Al was calling him. Al was speaking to him from the other side of the phone.

_Al was alive._

Just like that, his chest released, and with his sharp exhale came a flood of questions. "Al, where are you? Are you alright? Where have you been? How did you get this number?" Before his brother, his little brother who was _alive_ and _somewhere here_, could respond, he gripped the phone tighter. "I'm coming to get you. Tell me where you are."

There was a strange noise on the other end of the phone that he couldn't identify. "Ed, I—" The phone line crackled, and he heard a sound like something hitting the ground.

"Hello Edward."

His heart froze in his chest as the unfamiliar, chilling voice replaced Al's. His hands shook as he gripped the phone, his eyes widening. Lindsay was already standing from the table and coming over to him, a look of wide-eyed alarm on her face.

"Who are you?" he whispered finally. This... this couldn't really be happening.

"That's irrelevant, my dear boy," the man on the other end of the phone said amicably. Despite the tone, it was more terrifying than anything he'd heard in a long time. "What really matters is: _where am I?_"

Anger suddenly reared its ugly head within him. "What is this, some sort of sick game? What have you done with Al?"

There was a chuckle on the other end of the phone. "Done with him? I've done nothing he hasn't agreed to." There was a sound like the phone had been moved, and another thump. "After all, can't have anyone hurting his _precious_ elder brother."

"Leave him alone!" Ed hissed into the phone, fear taking his breath away. His mind was circling itself. _Al is alive. He's in danger. He's alive, and in danger. Al is alive._ Back and forth like a sick pendulum that would never stop.

There was a sigh on the other end. "Oh Edward, you're doing it all wrong. I appreciate the gallantry, but this is where you're supposed to be asking me what I want, not trying to antagonize me with words that can't help him any more than the wind can."

Ed's teeth grit together so hard that he feared in the back of his mind that he would crack them. "What do you want?" he relented after a moment, his stomach doing a strange flip-flop at the acquiescence. But it was for Al... His little brother. His Alphonse.

"It's simple, really," the man said, the smile evident in his voice. Ed could almost picture him, standing there with the phone to his ear, a sick grin stretching his face like the psychopath he was. "All I want is for you to come pick him up."

The world seemed to come to a screeching halt at that. _What?_

He only realized he'd said it aloud when the man responded. "I can't afford to give him a taxi fare myself, and it's quite obviously unwise for me to drop him off somewhere. He could be hurt, or worse!" The mocking in the psycho's voice was thinly veiled, and it made Ed's vision turn red for a moment. "So I figured, who better to fetch him than his oh-so-loving and devoted brother?"

That was impossible. There was no way a kidnapper would give away his captive just like that. Granted, he hadn't actually said he'd kidnapped Al, but...

_He doesn't need to_, Ed reminded himself fiercely. _His attitude does it for him._ He'd seen and heard of enough kidnappings over the years to know at least that much.

"So I just come and get him and everything's peachy?" he snarled. "You're just gonna let him go?" He knew in the back of his mind that antagonizing the man was probably the last thing he wanted to do, but his fear and fury made it impossible to remain silent.

"That's essentially the gist of it." The tone was so mild-mannered that he could have imagined they were having some kind of civil conversation, if it hadn't been for the fact that the air around him was electrified with tension and his head was swimming with so much intense emotion that he was sure he was going to pass out any moment.

He opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out. He felt like he was being strangled.

"Well, as long as you understand, I'd best let you go so that you can start your commute. Oh, I almost forgot. The address!" Ed's heart nearly leapt out of his chest as he scrambled to his feet, fingers struggling to snatch up a pad of paper from the pile beside the phone's cradle. Paper scattered across the countertop and onto the floor as he finally grasped one, a pen already in his hand from the small container on the countertop. With shaky, nearly illegible writing, he scribbled down the address that the man rattled off with an unholy glee that had Ed's knees growing weak again. He leaned heavily against the counter as the man paused.

"Oh, and Edward?"

He could only spare breath for a grunt of acknowledgement.

"Better make sure that Lindsay and Jonathon stay home. It might not be safe outside for them, after all."

It was like the straw that broke the camel's back; Ed felt impossible fury rise up in his throat. How did he _know so much_? The phone nearly broke as he shoved it down into its cradle, cutting off the sickly sweet voice; cutting off his one connection to his brother besides a flimsy sheet of paper covered in his scrawl. His hands fisted together against the counter and he leaned forward, his bangs falling past his eyes. He could see his arms trembling—with rage or fear, he didn't know.

The silence of the room was oppressive and pressed down on him like a physical weight; he was sure his legs were going to collapse again.

_He has Al. I need to go find him. Go find Al. Now._

Suddenly, a voice spoke up, and a hand touched his shoulder. "Ed?"

He swore explosively and whirled, his hands already raised in a defensive stance. It took his emotional mind a full five seconds to register Lindsay standing just three feet in front of him, her hands raised in a peace gesture even as her wide eyes were filled with startled concern.

"Ed... what was that?" she breathed after a moment.

His shoulders were tense and ready, but he lowered his hands slightly. He opened his mouth to say something, but his chest was still impossibly constricted. He couldn't force any words out past the fear and anger.

"Who was that on the phone?" Her voice was shaky, and he could see honest fear in her expression. He tried to imagine what it would look like to someone who had witnessed the phone call, but his mind kept focussing only on Al's voice, saying his name over and over again.

"No one," he managed to stutter out finally.

"That was _not _no one!" Lindsay insisted, her voice rising in pitch. "What the _hell_ just happened?" Her tone was bordering on hysterical.

Ed's heart thudded hard in his chest as he heard a murmured goodbye from down the hall. If Jon had _heard_...

"I... I have to go," he muttered, before ripping the note off the pad of paper and darting out of the kitchen. He heard Lindsay's quick steps immediately following him as he reached his room and slipped inside. Just as he was trying to close the door, Lindsay appeared in the gap, sliding halfway through the doorway before it was even half closed. His heart was beating too loudly in his ears for him to stop her from entering fully in time, but his arm slammed the door immediately afterwards and locked it.

A moment later, there was a knock on the door. "What are you two doing in there?"

Lindsay opened her mouth to say something, her expression near-wild, but Ed reached out and stifled her with his gloved hand.

"Nothing!" he said in his best innocent voice, but even he could tell it came out anxious and tense. The doorknob jiggled, even as Lindsay tried to claw at his hand. Finally, a sigh was heard.

"I'm not going to be the one to tell Catherine, then," Jon muttered. There were steps moving away from the door a moment later, along with a mutter of "Teenagers these days..." Ed felt his face flush as he realized what the man was implying.

A moment later, Lindsay wrenched herself out of his grip. "What the hell are you doing?" she hissed. He found himself grateful that she'd taken his hint and kept her voice quiet; though how long that was going to last, he didn't know.

"It's none of your business," he growled, an edge of panic in his voice. "I have to leave."

Lindsay grabbed his arm as he headed toward the window. "What the _fuck _is going on here?" she demanded, her voice a low hiss that abruptly reminded him of her mother. There was fire in her eyes as she wrenched him around to face her. "You can't just get a call like that and suddenly decide you're going to break house arrest to go and do whatever the hell it is you think you have to do! Who called you? What are you doing?"

"I said—"

"You said it's none of my business, and I call bullshit!" she snarled. "You're scaring the shit out of me and I want to know why!"

It occurred to him that she might possibly be concerned for him, but he brushed the thought away. _Al. Have to get to Al._

"I have to go," he repeated. Lindsay looked ready to kill.

"You're not going anywhere until you tell me what's going on. If you don't..." She dug her nails into his arm. "I'll call Jon."

Ed's breath left him in a whoosh.

_Better make sure that Lindsay and Jonathon stay home. It might not be safe outside for them, after all._

His knees went weak, and he sat down on the bed heavily. "I... I can't, I can't tell you."

Lindsay's face softened ever so slightly, though the fear and anger were still present. "Ed..." She took a deep breath and clenched her fists. "I've seen enough cop shows to last me a lifetime—for god's sake, my mom's a CSI—and... that looked like someone just threatened you or something."

He shook his head sharply, clenching his fists in his pant legs. "I can't tell you. I _can't_," he insisted as she opened her mouth to say something more. "I have to go, and you have to _stay here_."

She put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes. "And why should I?" she snapped. "You've suddenly gone all sullen and mysterious. Who says I won't just follow you when you leave?"

"Because if you do, you'll get hurt."

The girl's face blanched slightly. "Is that a threat?"

He shook his head, punching the bed beside him. "No, damnit! It means that you're not _safe_ out there right now!"

There was a pause as comprehension dawned on Lindsay's face. "You... they said you can't tell anyone," she realized. Ed threw his hands in the air.

"And finally she understands!" he proclaimed toward the ceiling, as if thanking God that she finally got it. With a growl, he stood up from the bed and moved to the window, examining the casings of it.

Lindsay bared her teeth, but there was less bite in the expression than usual. "What, so now you go off searching for whatever it is that you need, while I stay here knowing nothing because you can't say anything?"

"That's pretty much the idea," he muttered darkly.

"What is this, some kind of late-night crime drama?" she growled. Ed spared her a glare as he ran his hands around the window. "Will you just _stop _for a second?" she demanded.

He turned from the window and fixed her with a flat stare. "Look," he said, speaking slowly as if to a child. "I need to leave. _Now_. If I don't... I don't know what will happen. So I have to go. And you have to stay here, because if you don't you'll probably get hurt. And it will be _my_ _fault_. You think I _want_ you to follow me into something that doesn't even concern you? You think I need more peoples' deaths on my hands? I just..." He made an aggrieved noise. "I don't need to see more people die because of me."

Lindsay's face was stricken as she stared at him, and he turned back to the window after a moment, a dark scowl obscuring the vulnerability he felt.

There was silence for a minute, and finally he found the right latch on the window screen and tugged sharply upwards, releasing the catch and letting the screen come loose into his hands. He pulled it into the room and set it on the side table as the cool Nevada wind blew through the open hole.

"...Are you going to be okay?" Lindsay's voice was meek and held a strange note of concern in it. Ed turned his head back towards her as he threw his leg over the window sill.

"Just stay here, okay?" was all he said as he let his other leg follow the first and levered himself out of the window. As he reached back through the gap to grab the screen, he saw that Lindsay was still standing in the middle of the room, looking at him with an unreadable expression. He sighed. "And... please don't tell anyone."

There must have been something in his eyes that convinced her, because after a moment she nodded. "I... I won't," she agreed, biting her lip. "Just... don't die or something, okay?"

He gave her a smirk, though it was shaky at best. "I won't."

With that, he fitted the screen back into its place and took off in the night.

* * *

**I am, overall, unhappy with this chapter and had to fight it to get it even close to right, but what can you do?**

**As usual, update speed will be erratic. RL is just unkind right now, especially with my recent shoulder injury. I'm also taking part in the BBC Sherlock Big Bang, which involves finishing a substantial fic by October. Wish me luck on that!**

**As a random thought, I was wondering if there is anyone out there who would be willing to be my kick-in-the-pants, get-to-work cheerleader/occasional beta? I want this story to actually get finished sometime in the next while, and it won't happen anytime soon if I am left to my own devices with procrastination and the complications of RL. I need someone who'd be willing to hold me accountable for actually getting my chapters out in a timely fashion, because (as is probably quite obvious by this point) I have serious problems with that. I need deadlines to motivate me. Also, it might just be me, but I sometimes feel like this fic wanders in directions it really shouldn't in order to keep a cohesive storyline, so someone to be harsh about keeping my facts straight and on a good tangent would be w****ü****nderbar.**

**I hope you enjoyed the sudden action in this chapter; it should just keep going up from here. **

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	26. Through the Night

**I'd like to first welcome my new beta, sama-chan, on board for this fic! She's done an excellent job in editing this chapter, and any mistakes that remain are entirely my own. **

**This is the last of the partly-pre-written-but-requiring-heavy-editing content left from last November's NaNoWriMo, so I hope I can still keep this update speed while I write from scratch again in the upcoming chapters. As always, I'm unreliable and therefore can make no promises. This is, on the other hand, by far the longest chapter to date, so I hope you enjoy it!**

**Warnings:**** Aggravation, panic, and general anxiety, people jumping to conclusions, a new character (finally), multiple sudden setting changes, questionable geography due to being Canadian, and an even bigger cliffhanger than last time! (Sorry. You should know me by now.)**

* * *

He had the strangest sense of déjà vu as he flitted from shadow to shadow down the block, making sure he was far enough away from the house before he went out into the open. Three blocks later, he ducked into an alleyway and leaned against the fence separating him from another house's back yard. Wrenching his hastily scribbled note out of his pocket, he read the address.

_Meade Avenue_. _Where the hell is that?_

He resisted the urge to sink to the ground and scream his frustration to the air. With his luck, he wouldn't get up again, and instead flail into a black pit of self-deprecating despair.

_Think about Al. Think about Al,_ he repeated to himself like a mantra. _Find him. Rescue him._

He looked at the address again, wracking his brains to try and figure out where it was—but he had no idea. The only map of Las Vegas he had seen was briefly at the crime lab when Greg had had to explain something to Sara. The only other familiarity he had with the city was a vague idea of the layout from his first foray into the impossibly confusing streets.

With an aggravated sigh, he gripped his hair. "Damnit!" he growled to the sky, slamming his hand against the fence. Immediately a dog started barking in the yard, and he darted further down the alley.

_What the hell am I supposed to do now?_ he asked himself in frustration. After a moment, what he always called the 'Al-voice' in his head suggested that the best idea would be to ask for directions. With a sigh, he followed the alley a little further. Who was he supposed to ask? It didn't look like many people were out at this time of night, and going up to someone's door at two in the morning had to be the worst possible way to try and communicate his good intentions.

He finally reached the other end of the alley and peeked out onto the street. The sight that greeted him was disconcerting; if he didn't have such a keen sense of direction he would have assumed that he was circling around to the same street over and over again. The houses—though probably different colours in the daylight—were washed out in silvers and greys by the moonlight, all featuring the same basic design and the same partially-grass-but-mostly-gravel-and-bushes front yard. The only distinguishing features were the vehicles parked out front and the barely-visible numbers that hung over the doors. The similarities were eerie and, not for the first time that night, he wondered why the hell anyone would build multiple houses that looked exactly the same. He'd go stir-crazy if he lived in one.

Shaking his head, Ed derailed that train of thought. It was something he could ponder later. For now, all he needed to know was that it was still a residential area; he hadn't even gotten out of the neighbourhood that Catherine lived in. At this rate...

He blew out through his nose violently and stepped onto the sidewalk. If he couldn't find anyone to give him directions now, he would just have to keep walking until he did.

* * *

Catherine sighed as she leaned back in her chair for a well-deserved break. She stared dully at the container of leftover spaghetti that was sitting innocently on the table before her, trying to work up the energy to actually eat it.

It had been awhile since she'd had to pull a 32-hour shift, and it was definitely wearing on her. She wanted nothing more than to lie on the couch just off to her right and sleep until next week. She could already feel her eyelids trying to close on her despite the short power naps she'd been having throughout the day.

Now if only she could work up the energy to get some carbs into her system, she might be able to make it to the end of the shift and go home.

"Tired?"

She glanced up as Warrick came in through the door, a tight, weary look on his face. She raised an eyebrow and gave him a small smile. "Speak for yourself."

The other CSI plopped into a chair across the table, resting his elbow on the glass and running a hand over his face with a sigh. "Yeah, I think we're all pretty much beat right now."

"Tell me about it." She sat up straight in her chair and began to poke at the spaghetti with her fork. "Did you and Nick find anything else with the bomb?"

Warrick sighed and rubbed his face. "No. We think it was a chemical explosive, but no residue was left behind. It was probably something that evaporated within a few seconds of the explosion. We weren't able to find the trigger, though with what Greg said about the rod Ed moved inside it, that could have been it. It was probably time-released."

Catherine finally lifted a forkful of pasta to her mouth. "And the inscription?" she asked around the mouthful.

"Matches the writing in the notes Grissom's been getting from serial perp," Warrick confirmed, resting his head in his hands. "Which means that it's likely he's the one who did this."

Catherine chewed thoughtfully. "So Ed's not responsible?"

The man sighed. "We can't tell. Grissom doesn't want to assume anything yet. Ed could have been working with the perp at any time, even though the evidence doesn't really support it. Not to mention he doesn't seem the type to poison himself for something like this."

Catherine shook her head. "You never know," she deadpanned, even though they both knew she agreed.

"Find anything new in the evidence pile?" he asked after a few minutes of silence in which he'd grabbed an orange from the fridge.

She grunted. "Not really. We found a few more salvageable pieces, but not enough to support a conviction in any of the finished cases anymore. All we have are the records now."

Warrick swore darkly. Catherine couldn't help but agree.

"So what now?" he asked finally, dumping his orange peels into the garbage can.

"Now we go home and get some sleep," she said immediately. "There's nothing time-sensitive to take care of, and I'm sure Grissom wouldn't appreciate us passing out on the job. The day shift people can take care of anything left to do."

Warrick nodded, relief evident in his face. "I need a hot shower and a solid eight hours of shut-eye."

Catherine gave him a warm smile. "I think we all do." She finished the last bite of her spaghetti and placed the container in her bag. "I'll go let Grissom know."

"Make sure he gets home sometime, too," Warrick said. "God knows he'll work himself into the ground if we let him."

She nodded with a small smile. "Yeah, he tends to do that."

With that, they parted ways outside of the break room—Warrick heading down the hall to tell Nick they could head home, and Catherine to Grissom's office.

Just around the corner from the break room, Catherine's cell phone went off. With a frown, she pulled it out and flipped it open. "Willows."

"Oh god, Mom, I'm so sorry, I didn't know what to do so I called you, but he's so mad and I know it was my fault but I didn't mean it—"

Catherine blinked in shock on hearing her daughter's voice so panicked that her words were practically running together in an incomprehensible rush of sound. "Lindsay, hey, slow down, what's going on?" she interrupted, feeling a strange sinking sensation in her stomach. Why would her daughter be calling at six in the morning?

"I didn't mean to, but he asked me to and I didn't think that he wouldn't come _back_!"

Catherine's heart lurched. "What?"

At that moment, Grissom's office door opened, and he came out of the room, a tight look on his face. Upon spotting Catherine, he quickly stepped over to her. Pensive at the look in his eyes, she pulled the phone away from her ear slightly and covered the mouthpiece as her supervisor opened his mouth to speak.

"Ed's missing."

The breath caught in her throat, and she gaped for a moment. "What? How? When?"

Grissom's lips tightened. "The officer on duty in the house said that he went to check on him about fifteen minutes ago and found Lindsay sleeping on his bed and Ed nowhere to be found."

She opened and closed her mouth a few times before her mind latched on to the most important part of that sentence. "Lindsay was sleeping on his _bed_?" she choked out incredulously, her mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion. Ed was a nice kid, but if he'd laid _one finger_ on her baby girl...!

Grissom gave her a stern look and put a hand on her shoulder. "Catherine. Officer Felt already talked to her. She says nothing happened. The issue here is that Ed is missing."

Blinking suddenly, she took her hand off of the mouthpiece of her cell and once more tuned into the ramblings of her now understandably distraught daughter.

"—and I wasn't even _thinking_ and you're probably gonna kill me—"

"Lindsay!" she interrupted sharply. "What I need you to do is explain exactly what happened. I'll be on my way home. Just slow down and tell me."

She could hear the deep breath the teen took as she audibly worked to compose herself. Catherine was already donning her coat. Grissom gave her a nod as she moved towards the exit door, letting her know that it was alright for her to go.

It didn't hurt that there would probably be at least one other CSI assigned to finding out exactly where Edward had gone.

Lindsay started speaking as Catherine pushed open the door and stepped out into the parking lot. "He made me promise not to tell anyone, Mom. I really didn't think he'd stay out all night and not come back!"

"Lindsay. When did he leave, and how did he get out of the house?"

Lindsay snorted, and Catherine could tell it was slightly hysterical. "He just climbed out the goddamn window, that's how. It was probably two in the morning or something; I don't remember!"

"What were you doing in his room? Did he say why he was leaving? I just need you to tell me what happened, in order. That's all I want to hear right now." She pulled out her keys and opened her car door.

"I'm sorry, I just—Mom, I know it was stupid; please don't be mad at me!"

Catherine sighed, even though her heart was pounding. "Okay, what I want you to do is stop for a few minutes. Get a glass of water and calm down. I'll be home in ten minutes, and by then I want you to be ready to talk to me**, **okay?"

Lindsay took a deep breath. "Okay. Okay, I'll do that. See you soon." With that, she hung up. Catherine rubbed her forehead as she started up her car. She had a feeling that this was going to be the start of a very long week.

So much for going home to sleep.

* * *

Grissom sat at the table in Catherine's house, nursing a cup of what he thought was coffee—though he wasn't quite sure because he wasn't really paying attention to it. Catherine sat on the other side of the table, her arm around Lindsay's shoulders as the girl did her best to string together an explanation for what had happened earlier.

"It was... somewhere in the middle of the night, I think one o'clock or something, and I was getting a snack. I know you don't like me being up that late, Mom, but I swear it was just this once—"

"Just tell us what happened, Linds," Catherine dismissed the teen's concern. "It's alright."

Lindsay nodded uncertainly before continuing. "Ed was still up with Officer Jon. I think he spent all day reading, even though I can't believe he would actually do something like that—" a nudge from her mother told her to move on, and she complied. "So he was in the living room reading something, and the phone rang. It was some kind of stupid telemarketer, asking if we wanted some kind of specialty car insurance. I told them we didn't need it and hung up." She paused, as though uncertain about what to say next.

"Then what?" Grissom prompted. Lindsay fidgeted, weaving her hands together.

"Then... Officer Jon got a call from someone—his wife, I think—and while he was gone the phone rang again. I figured it was probably the same stupid company, so I picked it up to tell them to take our number off the list or something. But..." she bit her lip, "it wasn't. They... they wanted to talk to Ed."

Catherine and Grissom exchanged a look. This couldn't be good.

"Did you ask why?" Grissom asked the teenager. Lindsay shook her head, obviously feeling guilty.

"No, because... I figured it was someone from the lab wanting to ask him some questions or something."

"We always ask questions in person, Lindsay. You should know that by now," Catherine said quietly, a bit of steel in her voice. Lindsay made a noise of frustration.

"I _know_ that! I was being stupid and didn't _think_ until after I'd given him the phone and by then I couldn't take it back and ask who it was—"

"You let him talk?" Grissom interrupted suddenly.

Lindsay put her head in her hands. "I know I shouldn't have but I did and I'm such an _idiot_!" she wailed, obviously close to tears.

Catherine squeezed Lindsay's shoulder. "All we need is to know the details of what happened, Linds. We all make mistakes; you can beat yourself up over it later." Grissom could tell she had tried to make it sound teasing, but with the tense atmosphere floating in the kitchen it didn't quite make it.

Lindsay raised her head. "He got on the phone and someone said something, I think, and... God, it was scary," she whispered. Grissom's gaze sharpened. "He... It was like he went into shock or something. I thought he was going to pass out, he was so white, and then he suddenly started shouting into the phone and he looked so scared and angry, I just... I don't know what was happening and it scared the shit out of me!"

"What was he saying?" Grissom asked quickly.

Lindsay shook her head. "I don't remember, really—it happened so fast and then he was scribbling something down and hanging up the phone. I..." she ran a hand through her hair in agitation. "I tried to talk to him and I swear he was ready to bite my head off before he started panicking and ran to his room. But Mom..." She looked up at Catherine, her hands fisted together. "I know you don't really like watching cop shows because they're so inaccurate, but... the only thing I could think of was that he'd gotten some kind of... ultimatum in the phone call, or something like that."

Catherine stared down at her daughter for a moment, then looked up at Grissom. He could clearly read the intense worry and suspicion in her eyes.

If Lindsay was right, things had just gotten complicated. And a dozen new possibilities had just opened up.

Lindsay caught their look and gnawed harder on her lip. "This is really bad, isn't it?"

"We'll see," Catherine hedged, though her voice was tight. "Did anything else happen? How did you end up in his room?" The brilliant red blush that lit up on Lindsay's face spoke volumes, and Grissom could see Catherine's mind immediately jumping to the worst possible conclusion again. "What happened?" she asked in a dangerously calm voice.

The teenager opened and closed her mouth a few times before looking up at her mother in horror. "You don't actually think I—that I... _Mom_!"

"Well did you?"

"Of course not!" Lindsay screeched. "I'm _sixteen_!"

"Didn't stop you from doing anything _else _usually reserved for adults," Catherine parried, and Lindsay ducked her head in shame. Catherine sighed. "So what actually happened?"

Lindsay exhaled through her nose, her cheeks still a rosy red. "I... He scared the hell out of me and didn't tell me why, so I followed him to his room and tried to get some answers. Officer Jon..." her face lit up like a tomato again, "he was just coming back to the kitchen when we left, and I think he got the wrong idea too..." her blush was so hot you could have baked cookies on her skin at this point. "And that's why he didn't... interrupt." She looked suddenly mortified at the unfortunate choice of words before ducking her head again.

Grissom waited a moment before speaking. "So you followed Ed and then...?" he prompted, trying to get the conversation back on track. His gut was telling him that time was of the essence and he had to do _something _soon.

"He looked... really worried. And angry. He would have thrown me out of the room if I hadn't threatened to tell Officer Jon. He kept saying it was none of my business and I should just leave him alone. I kept pushing him, and I know I probably shouldn't have, but I was scared and he was being so _stupid_..." She rubbed her face. "And then... I told him I'd follow him if he left, because he kept saying he had to leave and go do something, and he said..." Her voice faltered.

They both looked at her as she seemed to compose herself. When she did, her voice was nearly inaudible.

"He said I'd get hurt if I followed him."

Grissom felt his heart lurch even as Catherine tensed.

"He _threatened _you?" she growled lowly. Grissom could see the sudden drop in her estimation of Ed's character and the immediate desire to seek revenge on Lindsay's behalf. Lindsay, for her part, was already protesting.

"No! That's what I thought too but he said that it wasn't _safe_. I think... someone was threatening _him_ so he would do something**."**

Grissom felt his heart sink. The puzzle pieces were falling into place and he really didn't like the picture that they made.

When no one said anything about that, Lindsay continued. "Then he made me promise not to tell anyone he'd left, and jumped out the window."

Catherine blinked. "Wait, that's it? He made you _promise _not to tell, so you didn't think it was important to let someone know he was breaking _house arrest_?"

Lindsay threw up her hands and stood. "I told you that I wouldn't have agreed if I knew he wasn't going to come back! He..." Here she clenched her fists together in front of her as she stood, a stubborn set to her feet. "I made him promise not to die and I figured he'd do what he had to and then get back here! He reads fucking _books _all day, how was I to know he's not some kind of over-responsible buzzkill? I know it was stupid, but I didn't think he'd run off or something and not bother to come back! It's not like you told me the reason he couldn't leave!"

"And you didn't think that being under house arrest was a good enough reason to keep him here?" Catherine's voice was rising just as quickly as her daughter's.

"Do you know how many _reasons _there could be for putting someone under house arrest?" Lindsay retorted. "I think being threatened if you didn't go somewhere and do something specific is a pretty good reason for _not _sticking around!"

"So what now, we sit around and wait for him to come back because you_ thought_ he'd be honest about it?"

"I didn't know _anything_, Mom! I was scared and he kept saying things about not wanting people to keep dying on him! I wasn't about to make him stay! You're always talking about making your own choices even if they're bad ones, so why can't Ed make a few?"

"Because he's in the middle of a multi-murder investigation!"

"Well thanks for that info, Mom, it would have been helpful maybe _five hours ago!_"

Grissom abruptly stood. "Enough!" Both females turned to glare at him, and he held up his hands, palms out, in a peace offering. "You can express your difficulties with each other later. Right now we need to figure out where Ed went and why." He turned to Lindsay. "Are you sure Ed didn't say anything about where he went? No clues at all?"

Lindsay shook her head before biting her lip, visibly forcing down her previous ire. "The only thing he did was write something down on a piece of paper. It might have been an address."

"What did he write it on?"

"I think it was one of the notepads by the phone."

Grissom immediately went and picked up the notepad, holding it up near the light. Faint shadows outlined what might have been the imprint of words on the pad, but already he could tell that whatever was written on the note above had been scrawled far too quickly and lightly to have transferred through the paper well enough to read. With a sigh, he set down the pad, promising himself he'd still take it back with him to the lab and try to get _something_ from it. "Anything else?"

Lindsay shook her head, an anxious look on her face.

"The phone," Catherine said suddenly. "The call he got. The number would be on the caller ID." She was already moving to check it as Grissom nodded. A second later, she frowned and shook her head. "Both numbers from last night are showing up as unavailable."

Grissom sighed in frustration. "I'll have Nick pull up the phone records. Maybe he'll find something." He sat at the table again and put his head in his hands. There had to be evidence somewhere.

_We'll check his room_, he decided. _There might be something there. _He rubbed his eyes, sighing again even as Catherine called Nick and Lindsay moved into the living room.

* * *

Four hours after leaving, Ed was seriously questioning his plan of attack.

"Seriously?" he growled to himself as another car passed him without stopping even as he signalled for it. In the back of his mind, he had to agree that a teenager asking you to stop your car at six in the morning was a somewhat suspicious and untrustworthy act, but _really_? _No one _was willing to cut him a break here?

Running his hand through his hair, he looked around. He'd managed to get out of the residential area and into what looked like a business quadrant; a number of smaller shops lined the streets, their windows dark and silent. None of them would be open at this time of night, which really put a huge damper on his plans. He weaved his hands together agitatedly, unable to shake the feeling that he was _running out of time_. That psycho could be doing all kinds of things to Al and Ed _couldn't do anything about it!_

A sudden need to move _faster _burrowed into his tense shoulders, and he began to jog down the street. If no one was going to stop for him, he would have to just find someplace that was actually open and could help him. At this point, his desire to not disturb sleeping houses was starting to fade; he wouldn't be averse to waking someone up and demanding directions anymore.

It was with a rather large sigh of relief mixed with increased anxiety that he turned a corner and spotted lights on in the window of what looked like a general store, if the flickering "24-hour Convenience" sign above the door didn't give it away. With a small flash of hope blooming in his chest, he jogged forward and pushed open the door with a jingle. Inside, shelves rose from the floor covered in colourful snack packages, while large front-loading coolers lined the walls, filled with bottles. Everywhere there were small signs hanging on the ends of strings attached to the exposed ceiling beams, proclaiming lotteries and sales. Grime covered everything—except the merchandise—in a layer that had obviously not been cleaned thoroughly in the last decade, and in the corners the linoleum floor looked as if it was ceding defeat to a suspicious-looking brown gunk.

Behind the low, cracked counter was an older man who eyed him up and down suspiciously. A magazine was open in his hands, and after a moment he turned back to it, but Ed could tell that he didn't truly take his attention off of the only occupant of his store.

Confidently, he strode up to the counter and leaned against it. The man's eyes were sharp as Ed reached into his pocket, but relaxed slightly as the teen pulled a piece of paper out and placed it on the table.

"Do you happen to know where this is?" he asked, trying to keep his voice conversational instead of revealing the anxiety that was still eating away at him. He wasn't sure how good of a job he did with it, but the clerk didn't seem suspicious. Putting down his magazine, the older man snatched up the note and scrutinized it.

"Meade Avenue?" He looked up at Ed, who nodded. "You're on the wrong side of town, kid."

He twitched slightly at the kid comment, but endeavoured to ignore it. _Think about Al. Find him._ "What do you mean by that?"

The man raised an eyebrow. "I mean that the industrial district is on the west side, not the east. Just past the freeway."

He tried to resist the urge to swear, he really did, but a vicious curse escaped under his breath after a moment. "How the hell am I supposed to get over there in time?" he said, feeling a crushing sense of anxiety trying to drive him to his knees.

"What are you doing out so early that you need to get there of all places?"

Ed ran a hand through his hair. "I need to meet my brother. He's coming in from out of town," he lied easily. The clerk blinked at him.

"You're out here without a car and with no idea how to get where you're meeting?" he said darkly. "Why don't your parents bring you?"

Ed grit his teeth. "I just got turned around, okay? And I'm not from around here, so I'm not familiar with it." Snatching the note from the man's hand, he turned to the door. "Sorry for wasting your time."

"Hey now, wait," the clerk called, and Ed paused, looking back over his shoulder. "Let me call you a taxi. I don't want you wandering around alone."

He rolled his eyes at the misplaced concern but turned back anyway. The man was already dialling a number and speaking into the phone.

Ten minutes later, a lurid yellow car pulled up in front of the convenience store. Ed glanced back at the clerk, a slightly self-conscious smile on his face. "Uh... Thanks," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his head. The clerk waved a hand.

"Just make sure you and your brother get home safely," he said sternly. "I don't want to see your face on the news anytime soon."

Ed rolled his eyes again and stepped out of the door, climbing into the taxi's back seat. He handed the address to the man in the driver's seat. It spoke volumes about the man's profession that he didn't even blink before pulling out from the parking lot, without questioning why someone his age would be heading to an industrial district.

Nearly an hour later Ed climbed out of the taxi, staring around at what appeared to be a collection of warehouses. Leaning back in through the window, he thanked the driver and handed him a sheaf of bills that he had transmuted earlier in the week; he'd figured that it was better to be prepared than to be caught out with no money. He felt a little bad about giving the man fake currency, but his concern for Al was already far outweighing his desire to be fair. If the driver figured it out anytime soon, Ed would already be far away.

Without a backwards glance, the taxi pulled out of the area and back onto the main road that lined the district. Within a few moments, it was out of sight, and silence—or as much silence as there was in this huge city—descended. Ed looked around.

There were at least six warehouses arrayed around the small parking lot he was standing in. No other cars or signs of life were nearby. Through the gaps between the warehouses, he could see other large buildings, and what might have been a small factory of some sort. The sun was just starting to light up the horizon, lending a grey quality to the area. The last of the night-time humidity hung in the air, and the smell of exhaust from heavy machinery was starting to float across the city.

Ed looked down at the address still clutched tightly in his hand. 2607 Meade Avenue. That was where he would find his brother.

He looked up at the large warehouse before him. It was identical to the others, except for the number inscribed above the door. Logically, he knew it was a trap. What kind of kidnapper would just let you come and pick up the kidnapped without some kind of ransom?

But he didn't really care. He knew he had a bad habit of rushing headlong into situations he probably shouldn't, and this was no different. He knew there was a chance that Al wasn't even in the building, but Ed wasn't about to take the chance that he actually _was._

Gritting his teeth, he walked up to the door and put his hand on the knob.

It turned easily in his hand. An ominous feeling sank into his gut, but he couldn't stop now. Prepared for anything, he pulled the door open quickly and leapt back.

Nothing happened.

Waiting for a moment, he crept to the opening and peered in. He may rush into things, but he still made sure to exercise a healthy amount of caution in most situations.

There was no one in the foyer of the building. Scanning back and forth, Ed couldn't see any signs of life. He would have even been tempted to say that he must have the wrong warehouse, had the door not been unlocked.

Even back in Amestris, the door was _always_ locked.

Stepping cautiously into the room, he glanced down the only hallway leading from it, wary of any danger. When none presented itself, he followed the hallway down, pausing at each closed door to try the knob. All of them were locked.

As he came to the door at the end of the hall and looked back, he couldn't shake a chill that went down his spine. It was like he was being corralled into the open warehouse area. Glaring at the door, he grabbed the handle. If that was where the psycho wanted him to be, then that was where he would go. Edward Elric didn't back down from challenges, especially blatant ones like this. He would show them for underestimating him.

As he pulled open the door, a scrape echoed out into the open area. Wincing slightly, he let go of the door, and it stayed open from where it was digging a rut into the floor. With sharp eyes alert for danger, he stepped out into the warehouse proper.

It was relatively large, as far as warehouses went. On either side of him stretched tall shelving units, each shelf piled with what looked like a random assortment of broken or disassembled technology. Through the gaps in the shelves' contents he could see other racks, rows upon rows into the distance to walls he couldn't make out. The shelves to his sides ended about twenty feet in front of him, and another set started up five feet after that. It appeared to be a basic storage warehouse.

Ed stood as still as he could, trying to hear anything out of the ordinary. The only sounds that reached his ears were the creak of the building settling constantly and the fading echo of the door's creak. Carefully, he crept down the row, eyes peeled and senses on red alert.

That care fled from his mind as he rounded the end of the row and spotted a figure in the middle of a small empty area between shelves. Without so much as a backward glance he dashed forwards, and, skidding to a stop, he couldn't help but stare.

Al looked just the same as Ed remembered him, all those years ago. The untidy brown hair was spread over the top of the boy's head like a mop. Underneath the simple T-shirt and pants Al was wearing, Ed could tell that his brother's limbs were almost unnaturally thin and boney, and his face had sharp angles in it that Ed didn't remember ever being there. His eyes were closed, set deep in his face and surrounded by darkened circles of exhaustion, and his head lolled back against the backrest of the chair he was tied to. A gag was tied around his mouth. Ed felt a flare of white-hot fury at the thought that anyone would _dare _do such a thing to his brother. But it was tempered by the simple fact that this was _Al_. He was here. He was alive. Al... had his body back.

Ed felt his knees go weak, but he resisted the urge to fall to the ground. The relief in him was so _strong_ that he could barely think. How had this happened? What was Al doing here? What... how...?

He must have made some small sound, because the boy in the chair twitched slightly and groaned, opening his eyes. Dull amber orbs stared up at him uncomprehendingly, fogged with sleep that lasted only a moment until recognition suddenly appeared in Al's eyes, followed by panic.

Al sat up straight in the chair, eyes wide. He strained against the ropes tied around him, wincing and leaning back. The chair rocked precariously for a moment before settling. The sudden movement had snapped Ed out of his daze, and he was immediately on his knees, picking at the ropes as quickly as possible.

"Don't worry Al, I'm getting you out of here!" he reassured his brother as Al tried to speak through his gag, only able to make incomprehensible muffled noises. As the ropes around one of the Al's arms came loose under Ed's sharp pulling, the younger immediately reached up to remove the gag, even as Ed moved on to another rope.

Al ripped the gag down around his neck. "Brother, you have to get out of here!" he said breathlessly, his voice rising in panic. Ed froze before looking up at him.

"I'm not leaving without you," he said firmly, before giving the rope around Al's right leg a wrench that finally pulled it loose.

"It's a trap, Ed!" Al babbled urgently.

Ed looked at Al seriously, his heart pounding even as he moved on to the rope on his brother's other leg. "Well obviously," he said, putting as much bravado into his voice as possible. "You think I didn't realize that? It doesn't matter if I get you out of here fast enough."

"No, you don't understand—" Suddenly Al's eyes snapped up. "Behind you!"

Ed didn't even think; he was already diving out of the way as something—was that a _baseball bat_?—came crashing down where he had been crouching just a second before. He stood quickly and assessed his opponent.

The man holding the bat was large and stocky, with short black hair and a bushy beard that stretched across his face. He was dressed in what looked like a waiter's uniform except it was entirely black. The man swung the bat onto his shoulder and studied Ed, his deep-set eyes like beetle-black pits in the dim lighting.

But by far the most disturbing thing was the wide, toothy smile adorning his face.

"Hello, Edward," he practically _purred_, his dark eyes glittering. "I was starting to worry you wouldn't come."

Ed felt the anger from earlier that night rear its fiery head inside him at the voice that had taunted him so casually over the phone. Gritting his teeth he snarled, "What the hell do you want?"

The man sighed as if Ed were a particularly problematic child who had asked a particularly stupid question. "I thought it would be obvious by now, but I suppose I must have over-estimated your intelligence."

"Get out of here!" Al suddenly shouted, his right hand tearing at the ropes around his left. Ed shook his head violently.

"I'm not leaving without you, Al!" he insisted, even as the dark man turned to his brother.

"Speaking out of turn? What a naughty boy." With a casual movement, the man reached over and gave the chair a shove to one side. Tied as he was, Al wasn't able to catch himself as it tipped over and went crashing to the floor. He cried out as his head made contact with the hard concrete. The man pursed his lips and shrugged. "Oops. How clumsy of me."

Ed saw red. Before he even thought about it he was moving forward, his hands coming together on instinct. He barely had to think about this particular transmutation.

There was a crash of metal against metal as Ed's transmuted automail blade met the blunt metal of the kidnapper's baseball bat. The man blinked a few times as he stared at the blade protruding from Ed's arm.

"Well that's interesting," he murmured, before stepping swiftly to one side and disengaging their weapons, raising the bat in preparation for a swing. Ed ducked as the sports-equipment-turned-weapon came down, darting beneath the swing to bring his blade up to the man's throat.

He never made it that far.

A split second after he moved, a sharp pain bloomed in his chest, spreading like fire down his limbs and causing his muscles to spasm suddenly. His breath hitched and for one terrifying moment his vision went grey around the edges before resolving into a view of the floor. His automail blade was dug into the dirt while his flesh hand pressed uselessly to the already-fading pain in his chest.

Distantly, he could hear Al desperately calling his name and hurling abuse at his kidnapper, but he couldn't work up the breath to reply.

"That's also interesting."

Whipping his head up, Ed grimaced as the pain beneath his hand flared. The kidnapper stood before him, leaning on his bat. He felt the fury return, but this time he couldn't work up the energy to act on it.

Suddenly, the man smiled. It was not a nice smile.

"I look forward to finding out what makes you tick, Edward," he said conversationally, raising the bat once more.

Ed couldn't have dodged even if he'd tried.

* * *

**I would like to warn everyone who is faint of heart about the fact that this fic is going to get progressively darker in the next few updates. I mentioned several chapters ago that my writing style has matured, and that doesn't only refer to my language usage. The plot will not be all nicely-resolved fix-it problems, and I tend to write realistic instead of idealistic. This fic was rated T long before I added foul language, and now it's going to earn that rating. I really hope you'll stick with me through this regardless, because I love whump and angst and general unhappiness in my fics, which hopefully doesn't put too many people off.**

**Other than that, I hope this chapter's length and content made up for last chapter's revelations.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	27. Awake

**Hopefully this came out in a timely(ish) fashion. It's shorter than usual because I love me a good cliffhanger, but that means the next chapter will be nice and long!**

**Warnings:**** Some language, dubious explanations, cliffhanger (as usual)**

* * *

The first thing he became aware of was a throbbing pain in his head that beat in time with his heart, as though trying to shatter his skull with every thump. With a groan, he reached up to rub his head, sitting up slowly. Even that small amount of movement made his head ache worse than ever, and he was sorely tempted to lie back down and just not bother opening his eyes until he was in less pain.

A gasp that was definitely not his own distracted him from that line of thought, and his eyes flew open, only to be assaulted by a light that felt like mini daggers stabbing into his brain. He closed them again, covering his face with a moan.

"Brother! You're awake!"

He felt someone touching his arm as he groaned at the noise. Damnit, everything _hurt_.

"Ed, are you alright?" Al's voice was starting to rise in pitch with panic.

"Volume. Down," Ed managed to grit out over the massive pain in his head.

He heard a sharp intake of breath, then a whispered, "Sorry."

Ed lay very still for a few minutes as the atomic bombs going off in his head diminished to slightly more manageable grenades, though he could still see lights exploding behind his eyelids with the pain.

_What the hell happened to me?_ he wondered.

"Ed? Are you still awake?"

Al's timid voice managed to rouse him enough that he cracked open an eye ever so slightly, shielding his face from the somewhat weak light coming from a bare bulb hanging overhead. "Yeah," he confirmed, slowly opening his other eye as he adjusted to the light, his head giving another painful protest. With a final groan, he sat up slowly. Al's hands immediately moved to support him. Blinking his eyes sluggishly, he looked around, turning his head carefully in an attempt to keep it from hurting too much more.

They were in what appeared to be a small, dimly-lit room. The walls were what Ed figured must be cinderblock, though it was grimy enough that he couldn't quite be sure. There was a single door in the wall opposite them, made of what looked like simple wood. Other than that, there was nothing in the room besides the two of them.

"Where are we?" Ed asked dully, his voice somewhat hoarse. He reached up to rub the back of his head, before wincing sharply as he touched what felt like an enormous lump that radiated pain across his scalp. "What happened?"

"You don't remember?" Al's voice asked, and Ed turned to look at the younger boy. After a second, he did a double take, registering the clear amber eyes set in an almost unhealthily skinny face staring at him in concern.

"Al?" he whispered in shock, his eyes tracking down his brother's obviously human, non-armour form. "Wha..."

"You saw me before, Ed," the boy that looked like Al, sounded like Al, and was so very obviously a whole, perfect Al said uncertainly. "Before... before we ended up here."

Ed blinked and shook himself slightly, surveying the room again. "Where is here?"

Al bit his lip. "I... don't really know. He just brought us here after he... knocked you out."

"I don't..." But the memory was nagging at the back of his aching mind, and he closed his eyes and let it come back to him. He'd... gone after Al. The warehouse... and the psycho who'd kidnapped his brother. His fully restored brother. And then... He touched the lump on his head again, wincing. "Who hits someone with a bat, honestly?" he muttered. Al's face relaxed slightly.

"So you do remember," he sighed in relief, before tension returned to his expression. "Ed... what happened?"

"I came to get you back, of course," Ed said nonchalantly, as though it was the most obvious choice to make.

"But it was a trap!"

He glared lightly at his younger brother as he carefully stood. "I wasn't about to just let you stay with him, Al. He threatened you. What else was I supposed to do? It's my job as your older brother."

Al growled in annoyance. "But you were putting yourself in danger!"

Ed just raised an eyebrow at him, and Al eventually ducked his head, accepting the silent reprimand. If Ed cared about safety (or lack thereof), a lot of things in his life would have gone differently.

The blonde moved slowly around the room, inspecting the walls, running his hands up and down the cracks between the blocks. Al spoke up behind him.

"What happened when you were fighting him?"

Ed glanced back over his shoulder. "What do you mean?"

"You looked like you were hurt, but he didn't lay a hand on you before that... Are you okay?"

Ed turned around fully as Al came up behind him, giving him a stern once-over as if to make sure he still had all of his limbs. Ed rolled his eyes.

"I'm fine, Al. It's just... some kind of residual pain from something that happened at the place I've been staying."

Al narrowed his eyes. "That didn't look like residual pain to me."

"Well, it was. I'm not injured." Al raised an eyebrow. Ed scoffed slightly and pointed to his head. "This doesn't count." His brother snorted and moved to sit against the wall again, and Ed moved back to his scrutiny of the room. When he made it around to the door he tried the doorknob, even though he was fairly sure that the psycho would be a rather poor kidnapper if he left the door unlocked. As expected, it didn't turn. He moved on to the door itself, testing its density. It seemed to be made of solid wood, which made it a lot heavier than normal. Ed smirked slightly. It also made it a lot easier to transmute. He ran his hands over the door frame, testing its strength. The hinges were obviously on the other side of the door.

Suddenly, his eyebrows came together, and he turned back to Al. He could feel the younger's intense stare on his back, and the silence was an expectant one.

"You want to ask something?" he prompted as he found his brother's eyes trying to bore a hole into his back as he bit his lip. Al shook his head, and Ed snorted. "Al. I know when you have something to say, even if you don't really want to say it. What's eating you?" Al hesitated for a moment before opening his mouth.

"You... Ed, you used alchemy." Al's voice was small and uncertain, though Ed couldn't understand why.

"Yeah, and...?" he prompted, rotating his hand in a 'continue' motion.

Al pulled his knees up to his chest. "Well... how?"

Ed stared for a good ten seconds, in which Al began to fidget. "How... did I do alchemy?" His eyebrows came down in worry. "Don't tell me you don't remember how to do alchemy, Al."

The brunette shook his head sharply. "No, I do, but..." He gnawed on his lip, looking up at his brother with wide eyes. "It... doesn't work here."

Ed blinked. "...Yes it does," he said after a moment, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

Al shook his head again. "No, it doesn't. No one knows what it is, and all the transmutations I've tried in the past two weeks haven't worked."

"Well, maybe it's just you," Ed insisted, trying to ignore the sudden uncertainty rising in his chest. Al was confirming the suspicions he'd had for a good week now, but he didn't actually want it to be confirmed. Because if alchemy really _didn't_ work here—if it was just like the world he'd ended up in after Envy had killed him—then _how did Ed do it?_

Al made a noise of frustration. "No, Ed. It's not that it just doesn't work for me. The energy..." he made a futile gesture in the air, as if trying to communicate something he couldn't quite describe. "It's... not there. I can't feel anything when I try to transmute something, even with an array. It's like... there's no alchemical power here."

"It's all going to physics," Ed breathed suddenly. Al looked at him sharply.

"Physics?"

Ed leaned against the wall and slowly slid down it until he was sitting across from his brother in a similar position. "It's what trumped alchemy years ago in this world. They use physics to understand and manipulate the things that we use alchemy for. It's the difference between our world and this one."

Al stared at him. "What? This world?"

Ed sighed and rubbed his face. "It's... This place is an entirely different world than ours," he explained. "It's the other side of the Gate."

"The other side? What are you talking about, Ed? The Gate leads to alchemy."

Ed shook his head. "No, it leads here. This world is parallel to ours, except instead of using alchemy, it uses physics. It's what lets them have things flying in the air and all the technology they've come up with."

"But—"

"I've been here before," he interrupted, and Al's mouth shut with an audible clack. "When I died."

Al drew a sharp breath. "You mean, when Envy...?"

Ed nodded. "I ended up on this side of the Gate, in another Ed's body. He was living with Hohenheim."

"_Dad_?"

"Yeah. He ended up over here when Dante killed him."

"That's... but... then where is he?"

Ed shook his head. "When I came here last time, it was in the 1930s. After awhile, I accidentally ended up being involved in a zeppelin crash, and... I guess I died again. That's how I ended up back in our world."

Al stared at him in shock for a moment. "But... It's 2007 here!"

Ed grimaced. "Yeah, I know."

There was silence for a good few minutes before Al spoke up again.

"Could you use alchemy the last time you were here?"

"No," Ed answered immediately, having expected the question. "Not even the simplest of things."

"Then how...?"

The blonde shrugged. "I don't know. Actually, I've been trying to figure it out for a week now. I read a ton of history books to make sure it was actually the same world, and... I'm pretty sure it is."

"But that doesn't make sense," Al cut in. "If it didn't work before, why would it work now?"

Ed rubbed his chin. "There are a lot of possibilities, even if most of them aren't really probable. I was thinking maybe it's because I'm in my original body this time, instead of this side's Edward, but..." he sighed. "You're in your original body too, which defeats that idea."

"But I haven't been in my body for five years. Maybe that's a factor?"

Ed shook his head. "You could use your alchemy before that. You're still part of our world. It wouldn't make sense for you to be unable to use it too. Maybe the fact that your body's been in the Gate... but that's improbable."

"But if it's not that..."

"It's something else," Ed agreed, nodding. "I just have to figure that out." Suddenly, he stood, ignoring the slowly-decreasing ache in his head as he moved. "But we can figure that out later. I think priority one is getting out of here."

Al stood as well, stepping forward. "Brother, I've tried to get out before—"

Ed raised an eyebrow at him. "I have alchemy still," he reminded his brother, holding up his automail hand, which still had his customary short blade sticking out of the end of it. Now that he thought about it, he was probably lucky he hadn't stabbed himself with it when he was unconscious.

Al gave him a small smile. "Yeah, I guess I forgot."

Ed gave him a smirk and turned toward the door, clapping his hands together. "Be ready to run, just in case," he warned as he placed his palms flat against the wood, intending to simply deconstruct it like he'd seen Scar do more times than was strictly healthy.

As the blue light flared, his grin widened. The Psycho (Ed decided he deserved a capital qualifier by this point) had underestimated him, and they were totally getting out of this easily.

That thought only lasted until a spontaneous burning pain spread through his chest. The transmutation faltered and died as he fell against the door, a small cry of pain escaping him at the sudden onslaught. He heard Al's shout of concern a second later, but was too caught up with the fire that was starting to become an all-too-familiar sensation.

It took nearly a full minute to fade completely, and in that time he thought he felt Al moving him into a sitting position against the wall. He couldn't quite tell, because his eyes were screwed shut, doing his best to combat the pain.

Soon he became aware of Al's frantic stream of questions.

"Ed! Brother, what's wrong? Are you alright—"

"Al, I'm fine," he wheezed, before drawing a deep breath. He felt his chest expand carefully, and tendrils of fiery pain danced beneath his skin before slowly sinking into nothing. All that remained was phantom pain.

"What was that?" Al was nearly hysterical.

"I don't know," Ed lied. He was starting to see a pattern here, and he didn't like it. He didn't like it at all.

"Are you alright? Maybe you're actually hurt—"

"Al!" He held up a forestalling hand, even as his brother's concern warmed his heart. He'd missed this. "I'm fine. It's gone now."

"But what if it comes _back_?"

"It won't," Ed said confidently, ignoring the strong feeling that he was wrong. Before Al could say anything more on the matter, he stood, ignoring the slight twinge in both his head and his chest this time. "Can we make it out?" he asked, inspecting the door. There was a ragged foot and a half round hole at about chest level in the wood.

Al came up behind him, and Ed could feel his eyes on his back, though he didn't turn around to acknowledge the gaze. Finally, Al inspected the hole.

"I think..." He ran a hand through his hair before sticking his head out of the hole cautiously and looking around. "I might be able to fit through here," he said after a moment. "I'm all skin and bones right now."

Ed pursed his lips. "I don't want you going out there alone," he said seriously.

"I could try and open the door from the other side."

The blonde scratched the back of his head. "Let me try to reach the lock first. Maybe I can jimmy it open, or break it." He flexed his automail hand, sweeping the blade through the air slightly. Al nodded.

Taking off his glove to get a better feel, Ed reached his left arm through the hole and felt around for the lock. A second later, cold metal met his fingers, and he inspected it by touch.

"Feels like a key lock," he murmured. "I'll probably have to break it."

Al made a noise of agreement, and Ed made to withdraw his arm from the hole.

Suddenly, something heavy clamped down on his forearm and gave a strong jerk. Ed was brought smashing into the heavy wood door, his shoulder pressing up against the hole as his cheek struck the door. His head throbbed mightily, and the world went black for a second.

"Brother!"

Ed tried to respond, but the thing on his arm gave another jerk and his face jammed into the door again. He placed his automail palm on the wood and tried to pull back, to no avail.

"What naughty, naughty children you are," a voice sing-songed from the other side of the door, and both teens froze in horror. Suddenly, Ed's arm was released and he fell back into the room with a cry. Al was immediately at his side, dragging him back from the door. There was the sound of metal on metal before suddenly the door came open. The Psycho stood on the other side, a malicious grin spread across his face.

He clicked his tongue. "Misbehaving already? I thought I taught you better than that, Alphonse." Ed glared at the man, even as he felt Al duck his head.

"Leave him alone, asshole!" he managed to spit out as his head continued to spin.

The man turned towards him. "Ah, Edward. I suppose you don't know the rules yet. You're not allowed to do things like this," he reprimanded as though he were speaking to a rebellious child, gesturing towards the partially-deconstructed door.

"Shut the hell up," Ed grit out. "You don't own us. Now let us go!"

The man blinked twice before suddenly laughing loudly. Ed stared at him without comprehension, feeling Al's grip on his shoulder tighten until it was almost painful. "Oh, Edward, you are very amusing indeed," he chuckled. "If I were going to simply let you go, why would I have gone to all the trouble of catching you?"

Ed couldn't really fault that logic, but it still pissed him off.

"You bastard, what do you want?" he shouted, sitting up slowly. Al helped him until they were sitting side by side, ready for anything.

The man huffed in amusement. "Who is to say I want anything at all? Perhaps I just enjoy the thrill of the chase."

Ed snorted, subtly moving his foot until it was positioned under his knee and he was in a near-unnoticeable crouch. "Yeah? Well then you should be fine with just letting Al and I leave, then."

"Oh, no no no," the man said, waving a finger back and forth. "Then you would go tattle to all of your little CSI friends. We can't have that!"

Ed's eyes widened as his mind finally connected the dots that had been waiting for him since he got that phone call at Catherine's. "You're the one who's been killing all of those women!"

The man didn't respond, but the wide smile that opened up on his face was proof enough. Ed felt his ire increase even further, if that was possible.

"You bastard!" he shouted, flexing his leg and catapulting him towards the man at speed, his automail blade drawn back to deliver a devastating blow.

He had just enough time to register the surprise in the man's eyes before his blade struck home.

* * *

**My express thanks to my wonderful beta sama-chan, as usual, who is amazing and incredibly prompt in her editing. And another huge thanks to all my reviewers, especially the ones who've been sending me kick-in-the-pants messages!**

**This is not the shortest chapter I've ever written, but it is quite brief. I'm hoping to have the next (longer) chapter out in the next few weeks, real life permitting. (For those of you who care, I won't be writing in the next week due to attending an awesome Supernatural convention. I AM STOKED.) **

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	28. Flight

**So this year went to hell in a handbasket. Apologies all around, and I hope that I can make it up to you now that things are a little better.**

**Warnings:**** The typical amount of violence, a touch of language, and general brotherly bonding (of a sort)**

* * *

Ed's feet were swept out from under him, and he hit the ground back-first. The breath was knocked from his body in a whoosh, and he felt the world start spinning again. Before he could even draw a breath, a weigh pinned him sharply to the ground. It took him a second to be able to focus, but when he could he saw that he the Psycho's knee was digging into his chest, his left arm pinned beneath the man's other leg.

And his automail blade was buried in the man's sleeve.

It took him another full second to realize what was odd about that. There was no blood.

"Brother!" Al shouted, and Ed thought he heard scrambling before the man suddenly lashed out with his other hand in Ed's blind spot. There was a cry and a thump as something hit the floor, and Ed tried to throw off the man to get to his brother, cursing.

There was a sadistic chuckle from above him, and Ed's eyes moved up to the man's face to see it twisted in that now almost-familiar insane grin.

"I must say, Edward—" (and he was starting to seriously hate how this guy said his name, as though it was the most delightful word in the English language) "—I didn't expect you to be quite so fast with drugs still in your system."

"You drugged me?" he said incredulous, forgetting for a moment that he was supposed to be fighting back.

"How else was I supposed to get you back here without you waking up and running away?" the man asked in a babyish voice, lip quivering overdramatically with widened eyes. "No, we couldn't have that! A blow like that isn't going to keep such a hard-headed young man as yourself down for very long."

Ed scowled and tried to throw the man off of him, but he was apparently heavier than he looked. Before he could try and wrench his blade out of the man's arm, his automail wrist was grabbed in an iron grip.

"Now, now, no struggling. You'll hurt yourself again."

He threw curses angrily, using words that Al would usually scold him for. He felt the situation was probably appropriate.

The man shook his head, tutting. "Such naughty language!" He pulled Ed's automail blade off to the side, wrenching it out of his arm without even a wince, and bent the appendage upwards at an awkward angle. Ed winced as the port shifted ever so slightly.

"This was my favourite coat," the man noted absently, and Ed focused on the arm that was _supposed_ to be bleeding to see a piece of thick brown material sticking out through the slash in the black coat. With a shrug, the man dragged Ed's automail arm back towards him and inspected the blade on the end of it. Ed struggled against him, trying to at least move the blade enough to stab it through the bastard's eye, but he seemed almost inhumanly strong. He grabbed the wrist with both hands, examining the blade.

"This is a rather inconvenient and dangerous toy for a boy such as yourself, don't you think?" he said absently, and Ed felt a sudden sinking in his stomach as the man ran a finger down the inside of the blade. "Yes, I think it's not something you should be playing with right now." Then, before he could even think of struggling again, the man gripped the blade firmly, his other hand gripping Ed's clenched fist, and bent it backwards as though it were made of paper.

There was a sickening metallic crunch as the blade buckled at the wrist and finally broke away from the back of his arm, taking a significant chunk of the outer plating and his coat sleeve with it.

Pain lanced up into Edward's shoulder as wires got caught in the destruction, the sudden lack of nerve pulses from parts of the limb giving him phantom pains up into his neck. He gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out.

"There," the Psycho suddenly said, giving the plate a last wrench. Another wire snapped, and the muscles in Ed's neck tightened further, his breath catching in his throat. He almost didn't notice that his arm was allowed to flop to the floor as though it didn't have anyone controlling it at all. The man waved the piece of metal in his dazed face. "Now what have we learned about playing with dangerous objects?" he asked in a stern voice.

Ed managed to gather enough breath to spit in the man's face.

With a frown, the Psycho wiped the saliva away with his sleeve. "That wasn't very nice," he said in a flat voice. Then he punched Ed in the face.

Fireworks flashed across his vision from the double assault of fist and floor. After a second he found himself staring up at the bare bulb in the ceiling as black threatened to invade his vision from the corners. He could feel something sticky running down his nearly-numb face, and without checking he could tell his nose was broken. He also wouldn't be surprised if that stupid scar above his eye was opened up again. How many times was that now? At _least_ five, if you counted that run-in with Scar that one time...

He abruptly recognized his wandering thoughts for what they were just as he rolled onto his side, clutching his head while he threw up onto the floor. Dimly, he realized that the Psycho wasn't pinning him down anymore, but he couldn't really do anything about that right now. Wherever the man was now, Ed could only hope that he was puking on his shoes.

_Concussion_, he told himself multiple times. _Gotta be a concussion. Two blows to the head in a short period of time... Damnit my nose hurts._ He futilely tried to breathe through it, only to be rewarded with another flash of blinding pain.

He did his best to hold himself perfectly still, waiting for the waves of nausea and dizziness to subside into something remotely approaching manageable. His face was on fire, and he forced himself to breathe shallowly through clenched teeth, trying not to let his lips twitch into the grimace of pain they so desperately wanted to create. The taste of iron on his tongue told him that he must look like a total bleeding mess.

Time passed, though he wasn't sure how long. It could have been a minute or an hour, but slowly his head righted itself somewhat. He knew that with any movement the dizziness would start up again, but for now he could deal with it. The pain in his face, on the other hand, was burning just as fiercely as before. With a low growl deep in his throat, he shoved it as far into the back of his mind as it would go. _Ignore it and it will go away_.

It worked enough that he could open his left eye—the right was caked shut with what he knew was blood from the damn scar over his eyebrow. He found himself lying on his side, staring at the slightly cracked cinderblock of the wall. He blinked his eye slowly, before realizing that the ringing in his ears was the only thing he could hear.

"Al?" he tried to call out, but any movement of his lips brought the pain around his nose straight to the fore. With a whispered curse, he closed his eye, breathing as slowly as possible through an immobile mouth. After another minute, he managed to steady himself enough to open his eye again. Carefully, he brought his left hand up to his side and levered himself into a sort-of-sitting position. The head rush was worse than he'd expected, but he breathed himself through it, keeping his movements as slow and steady as possible.

"Al?" he asked again, more softly, as he twisted his torso to survey the room.

The answering groan was more like singing to Ed's worried ears.

Ed finished turning and gingerly brought his legs around. There was a shifting lump near the other wall that his swimming vision identified as Al-shaped. "Al?"

Another groan, this time louder, accompanied the appearance of Al's head as he sat up slowly and blinked hard. The brunette reached a hand up to his forehead, where Ed could already see a small lump forming. "Brother?" Al blinked again before his eyes finally focussed on the blonde, who was now leaning none-too-gracefully against the wall behind him. "Ed!" With only a small wobble, Al got to his feet and stumbled his way over to his brother. Ed could tell that he was clearly startled by the obviously macabre image he presented.

"Should be used to this by now, Al," Ed mumbled nearly incoherently as Al knelt in front of him and gently touched his forehead. "S'not really a big deal."

"Not a big deal?" Al exclaimed, an aggrieved look on his face. "Ed, you're bleeding!"

Ed tried to roll his eyes—eye, he corrected himself—but found that apparently doing so somehow involved a muscle around his nose, and he had to bite back a curse as the pain spiked.

"We need to get this clean," Al was saying, already reaching for the small pitcher of water in the corner that Ed hadn't noticed before. A second later, the boy was tearing a strip of cloth off of the hem of his shirt and wetting it, and Ed felt a blessed coolness on his forehead a second before something brushed his nose.

His teeth ground together audibly as he hissed, and Al pulled back in alarm.

"Think... 's broken," Ed managed to grind out. Al's mouth turned down in worry and he reached forward to inspect Ed's nose, not quite touching it as he ghosted his fingers over Ed's face.

"Looks like it," Al sighed. "Do you want me to set it?"

Ed thought about it for a second. Was it worth it? Then again, he really didn't want to look like some kind of idiot who got in too many bar fights, and he was already in pain to begin with, so why the hell not?

At Ed's slow nod, Al furrowed his brow. "Okay, but it's going to hurt."

"F'course it's gonna hurt, m'not an idi—" He was cut off as agony lanced through his face, and no amount of self-control could stop the string of curses that flew from his mouth in a colourful wave. Concussion or no concussion, he tossed his head from side to side, his hand coming up to his forehead without quite touching his nose. It took an eternity for the pain to sink back to a bearable level, and by then he could feel Al's hand on his shoulder, and Al's voice calmly instructing him to carefully breathe through his mouth. Finally, he opened his now-watering eye. "Son of a—"

Al's eyebrow went up as Ed cut himself off with a wince. "You shouldn't try to talk so much when your nose is broken, brother," he said matter-of-factly. Ed merely rolled his eye—_carefully_ this time.

"Thanks for the warning," he muttered as lowly as possible. Al merely shrugged.

"Teacher always said that it's best to do it when you're not expecting it."

"Yeah, well, remind me of that the next time _you've_ got a broken nose." He pulled his hand back from his face, finding that the fingertips of his gloves were now coated in red.

Al sighed. "Let me finish cleaning you up."

"Just watch m'damn nose this time," Ed groused as Al raised the strip of cloth again and began to dab at his face.

* * *

Grissom watched the sun sink behind the clouds with dismay. He and Warrick crouched next to each other beside the window Ed had escaped out of, staring worriedly at the gathering storm.

"Better find whatever we can before the rain hits," Warrick grunted, turning his eyes to the ground in a third futile search for any evidence on where the teen had gone.

Catherine, over by the fence that they'd determined Ed had vaulted over, ran a hand through her hair. "Doesn't look like we're getting anything else," she sighed heavily. "No prints. It's too dry." She shaded her eyes as she gazed up at the storm clouds. "Too bad this wasn't a day or two ago; there would've been mud."

The lead CSI grimaced at the clouds. "Yeah, well, we're stuck with what we've got. There's still time; keep looking." He didn't mention that he didn't really expect them to find anything.

The first drops began to fall ten minutes later, and they all scrambled to take shelter in the house as the skies opened up and released the rare rainstorm that had _really _bad timing.

Catherine grimaced as she wrung out the hem of her shirt, having been the last to get into the house. With a shake of her head, she kicked off her shoes and darted upstairs, no doubt to find herself some dry clothes. The others gathered in the kitchen, having been speedier in their escape to shelter.

"So what do we have?" Grissom asked into the silence.

Warrick rubbed his hand down his chin. "Well, we got the partial print from the fence, so we know how he got out of the yard without anyone seeing him."

"But he could have gone anywhere from there. Did Catherine find anything in the alley?"

"Not that I know. There wasn't much."

Grissom sighed as Catherine returned, just finishing pulling on a fresh shirt. "Nothing in the alley," she confirmed. "And he could have gone anywhere from there."

"So what you're saying is we have no leads." Warrick threw his hands in the air before wrapping them behind his head. "Damnit. He could be anywhere."

The torrent let up slightly about five minutes later, but by then it had already erased what little evidence they'd managed to find. With a collective sigh, everyone but Catherine headed back to the lab, with a promise from the mother that she would be in as soon as she saw Lindsay off to school.

Grissom's phone rang ten minutes after he got back to his office, and Brass' deft greeting was a welcome sound to his ear.

"Please tell me you have something."

His already heavy heart dropped a little further at Brass' sigh. "Nothin'. Got an APB out on him, but who knows what'll turn up. We were lucky last time."

Grissom snorted. "Yeah, he seems to be establishing a pattern here."

"I've got my boys checking every try they pass just in case he's gone squirrel again."

He felt a small smile tug at the corner of his mouth at the attempt at humour. "Thanks, Jim."

"It's my job, Gil. Besides, I'm not about to let the kid off the hook for making me search my city _again_ for him. You'd think he'd know better than to run off all the time."

Grissom stared unseeingly at the files on his desk. "You'd think so, wouldn't you?"

* * *

Ed opened his eyes to a dark stone ceiling and a blinding light bulb. Swearing, he clamped his eyes shut—which only succeeded in making his entire face throb with pain.

"What the _hell_—" he muttered grumpily as he slowly rolled to the side on the hard floor. His back was freezing and slightly damp from where he'd been lying. With slow, careful blinks he opened his eyes, squinting painfully out into an unfamiliar room. His confusion only mounted as he noticed large wooden racks standing near the far wall. The walls looked like plain brick, and a string of small light bulbs lined the ceiling.

He sat up as carefully as possible, wincing as he moved his automail arm. Glancing down, he felt his heart give a little lurch as he took in the tattered remains of his sleeve and the bent and shorn metal around the forearm of the limb. A few wires were twisted and broken, sticking out from under the arm plate. Any movement of the fingers or lower arm sent a zing of pain up to his shoulder.

"Winry is going to _kill_ me," he said quietly in dismay, closing his eyes and leaning his head back against the wall behind him.

"If we ever see her again," Al's voice echoed morosely from nearby. Ed opened his eyes and looked over into the corner to his right, where he could see his brother sitting with his legs drawn up to his chest and his chin resting on his knees. Ed felt his heart skip a beat, as it did every time he saw his brother since he'd found him. Al was human. Al was _okay_.

He scowled. "Don't say that. Of course we're going to see her again. Who else is supposed to fix my arm?" He felt his face twist into a strange little smile that felt like it was trying and failing to appear anything other than demented, especially with how swollen his nose probably was. "Besides, Granny would kill us if we didn't come back to eat her stew once in a while."

Al's lips twitched up slightly as he huffed through his nose. "Yeah. She'd be really disappointed."

Ed let his fake smile fall. "Hey, we're gonna get out of here. Don't you dare start giving up on me, Al. I worked too hard to make sure you didn't get killed to have this bastard get the better of us."

"I'm not giving up," Al said defensively, his jaw setting in that stubborn scowl that usually told Ed he would have a fight on his hands. The joy he felt at being able to read his brother through physical cues again was almost intoxicating, if they hadn't been in such a goddamn annoying (perhaps more than simply annoying, but Ed wasn't quite ready to admit that) situation. "But it's not like we have any idea where we are. Or that anyone knows we're missing."

"Grissom knows," he muttered absently, before blinking and realizing exactly where they were. Or, as his memories told him, exactly where they _weren't. _"Where are we? How did we get here?"

Al shrugged, a frown on his face. "I don't know. I think he might have put something in the water we got earlier. I can't remember anything after we started making escape plans again, but I woke up in here a few hours ago."

"A few hours ago? Why didn't you wake me up? We could've been out of here in minutes!"

Al gave him a sharp look of disapproval. "I _couldn't_ wake you up, brother. You had a concussion. You were unconscious. You'd been _drugged_. Who knows what that did to you! And besides," here his scowl became more pronounced and his eyebrows drew together in a look that always reminding him of Hohenheim, "I'm not gonna let you use alchemy again until I know what the hell it was that happened to you both times you've used it recently."

Ed scoffed, feeling a prickle of uneasiness at the back of his mind. "Nothing's happened. It's an injury I got a few days ago."

"No it's not," Al said stubbornly. "If it was, it'd be hurting you now, too."

"It does!" Ed protested flimsily, even as he took a deep breath through his mouth—ignoring the pain in his face in favour of trying to see if there was any pain in his chest.

There wasn't.

Al was giving him a searching look, and seemed to find what he was looking for as he nodded sharply. "See? You were breathing fine when you were unconscious, and every other time I've seen you so far. It's only when you use alchemy that it happens."

"I'm _fine, _Al." To prove his point, he carefully levered himself up with his left arm and stood. "See? Fit as a fiddle."

Al just sighed and stood as well. "You're not fine."

Ed gave him a dark look and turned away, looking around for a way to change the subject. He could feel Al's gaze boring into the back of his head, but he ignored it. He was used to it by now.

"Let's see..." he muttered quietly as he approached the racks against the wall. He gave them a tap with the back of his knuckle. "Looks like oak. I could use that."

He heard his brother sigh and come up behind him. "They're wine racks. I think we're in a cellar."

"Would make sense. But a cellar where? Are we still in Las Vegas?"

"I don't know. I don't know how long I was out. It could have been a few minutes or a day." Ed looked over to see Al worrying his lip between his teeth.

"Well, we can find our way back once we get out of here," Ed said deftly, turning on his heel and trying to locate the door. "Just gotta break down a few doors."

Except there was no door. Eyes staring at the walls in confusion, he turned in a full circle, scanning the bare brick and wine racks for whatever they were obviously hiding. There had to be a door.

Al nudged him. "Ed, look." He pointed up to a corner of the wall by the ceiling—and there it was. It was set into the wall where the ceiling rose sharply, at least ten feet over their heads. It was a typical cellar, and Ed was kicking himself for not seeing it. Most cellars had doors leading up into the main house.

Except there weren't any stairs.

The brothers blinked in disbelief at the marks on the brick wall where there had obviously previously been stairs bolted. Now, there was just empty space.

Ed took a deep breath. "Okay. Diabolical. Should've seen that coming."

Al gave him an exasperated look. "Ed, this is serious. How are we supposed to reach that?"

"Easy!" He stepped over to the wall beneath the door and reached his hand up, feeling around for purchase that wasn't there and testing the strength of the mortar. "Just give me a boost."

A second passed before Ed realized that Al wasn't moving. He looked back at his brother to find an aggrieved look on the younger's face.

"Ed, I..." he sighed. "I'm not in the armour anymore. Look at me." He lifted his arms to the side. The T-shirt he was wearing hung from his boney frame, and when he lowered his arms again, the neckline slipped over one of his shoulders slightly. "I probably wouldn't even be able to lift you, let alone boost you up that high."

Ed felt his heart sink, and more than because they couldn't take the easy way. The defeat in Al's voice was palpable. "Hey," he said, stepping up to his brother with his hands on his hips. "Just 'cause you're not Mr. Indestructible anymore doesn't mean you're useless. Besides, this cellar's cold; I wouldn't want your freezing metal hands on me anyways."

His small smile was echoed tentatively on Al's face, and Ed considered it a job well done.

"Now." He grabbed Al's hand and pulled him over to the wall. "What's this made of?"

Al blinked before running his hands over the brick. "Probably just regular brick stuff—lime, quartz, flint..."

"Awesome. I can work with those." He reached his left hand down so that he could connect it with the palm of his right hand, trying to move it as little as possible to avoid more sharp protests from the automail. Just as he was formulating the equations in his head, Al's hand came down on his good arm.

"No alchemy, Ed!" he said sharply, his grip on Ed's wrist tightening. "We can figure out a different way."

"Al, let go!" Ed insisted.

"No!" With that, Al gave his arm a yank and pulled his palms apart. Ed felt a spark up to his shoulder and winced. Al's expression immediately went contrite, but his eyes were still set with a stubborn glint. "Sorry."

"It's fine," Ed growled, shrugging his arm out of his brother's slackened grip. He turned to the room at large and put his hand on his hip, glaring around at nothing in particular. "So how do you suggest we do this if I can't use my ace up my sleeve?"

Al sighed in aggravation. "We build our own stairs, obviously."

Ed was just about to open his mouth to scoff when he realized exactly what Al was saying. His eyes fell on the wine racks. _Wow, I'm an idiot._

"If we can get one of these over under the door, we'd be able to climb up it. It's perfect as a ladder." Al was already tugging on one of the racks, trying to make it shift slightly against the stone floor. "It's solid oak, but... Maybe if we work together..." The wood creaked loudly as he gave a particularly strong heave and stirred a bit of the dirt that had built itself around the rack with what appeared to several years' worth of dust and damp. "Help me!"

Ed stepped over and wrapped his good arm around the support on the other side, giving a strong push. It was times like this where his strong automail arm would have come in handy, but... well.

The wine rack shifted more and more with each heave he and Al gave it. Several minutes later, there was a short furrow in the floor and the rack had been moved about a foot away from the wall. Ed got his foot behind it and set his back against the wall, planting both of his hands against the rack and shoving with his knee as hard as he could. With a crackling protest, the grime at the base gave way completely and the rack shrieked against the stone floor, setting his teeth on edge.

Once it was too far from the wall to push, he stood and set his shoulder into it with Al at his side. Slowly, slowly, the rack shifted across the stone floor, making an ungodly amount of noise as it did. Ed found himself glancing up at the cellar door more and more frequently, expecting to see the Psycho's face leering down at him. But nothing happened.

After what felt like forever, the rack settled itself beneath the door. The brothers sank down next to it, heaving with exertion.

"Remind me to do some bulking up when we get out of here," Al gasped, his hand hanging between his knees and his hands shaking slightly. "I forgot what it was like to be a wimp."

Ed gave a small laugh and patted Al's back. "Hey, there'll be plenty of time for that once we get out of here." He didn't say _if_. There was no _if_ here.

They allowed themselves a full minute of rest before standing again, determination and pure Elric stubbornness bringing their brows together as they stared up at the door.

"I'll go first," Al said finally. "It'll be easier for me to climb. And the door might be locked."

Ed gave Al a considering look before nodding. The brunette grabbed one of the shelves and swung himself up with ease. The rack didn't even creak—it was solid oak and heavy as hell. It was mere moments later that Al was standing on top of the rack and stretching to reach the doorknob, his stance not even wavering as he planted his feet on the narrow struts. Ed bit his lip in anticipation—what if the Psycho was waiting behind the door again?

There was a click and a near-inaudible creak, and the door swung open into darkness. Both of the brothers let out a small sigh of relief when nothing happened a few seconds later.

"Looks safe," Al whispered down. Turning slightly, he held out his hands. "Climb up, but be careful with your arm!"

"Yeah, yeah," Ed groused. _I've had plenty of practice. _He stepped up onto a shelf, levered himself up with his good arm and hooked his foot over the top edge of the rack. Pulling with his abs, he swung himself over the top beside his brother. Al gave him an unimpressed look.

"Show-off."

Giving his brother a bright smile, Ed stood. "You know it."

Al rolled his eyes and hoisted himself over the ledge of the doorway, and Ed snorted quietly and followed.

They found themselves in a long, dark hallway that looked surprisingly like a normal house. The walls were entirely bare except for a remarkably domestic-looking painting against the wall at the end of the hall.

"See anyone?" Al whispered as he looked one way. Ed shook his head as he looked the other way. There were no lights on, and not a sound from the rest of the house.

"I think it's this way," Ed murmured and stepped down the hall, expecting to and hearing Al follow. They reached the corner up ahead and looked carefully both ways, and lo and behold—light stood at the end of another hallway that was lined with shadowed doors. A small shaft of moonlight shone through the small window above the one at the end. "Jackpot."

The brothers made their way carefully down the hall, glancing into an open doorway on one side to find an abandoned kitchen.

"You'd think he was almost normal," Ed muttered darkly. He could feel Al's silent assent behind him.

They hurried past the rest of the doors, giving them little thought. The one at the end opened easily under his hand, and he stuck his head out and looked around. Swathes of moonlit grass and a few strangely stunted trees met his eyes. The lights of another house in the distance twinkled on the horizon.

"Looks like an old country home," Ed said quietly. "It'll take some walking. You up to it?" He looked back at Al's determined face and felt his resolve harden. "Alright, but don't slow down. He could be back any second."

With that, they stepped out of the house.

And a shrieking alarm drilled through the air.

Ed felt his heart leap into his throat, and within a second he had grabbed Al's arm in a death grip and was sprinting across the lawn. Their feet pounded against the rocky soil as the alarm wailed behind them.

_The road's just ahead. The road's just ahead,_ he repeated to himself like a mantra as he felt Al flagging slightly. He could hear an engine—or several engines—over the bank of the next hill.

And then he heard the dogs.

He didn't question his instinct as the howls broke above the shrieking in the air. He shoved Al in front of him and gave his brother a hard look that brooked no argument.

"Go to Las Vegas. Contact Gil Grissom of the Vegas Crime Lab. Tell him I sent you, and everything you know. And if you come back in two minutes with some civilian from the road who's just gonna get killed, then so _help me_—"

"But—"

"Get your ass _moving!" _He pushed Al as hard as he could towards the top of the hill, and glanced over in time to see a car coming around the bend. "It's pointless if both of us get caught!"

Al hesitated for only a second longer, his eyes wide and round, flicking between Ed's face and what he had no doubt was coming up right behind him. "I'm coming back for you," he suddenly said firmly, before turning and sprinting down the hill. Ed had enough time to see him dart onto the road and hear the shriek of the car tires before something heavy slammed into his back and he pitched forward onto the ground.

* * *

**I can make no promises, but I do hope to have the next chapter out in a much more timely manner.**

**Once more, all credit goes to my beta sama-chan, who is much more punctual than I and has the eyes of a hawk.**

**-Akita**


	29. The Other Brother Elric

**I'm hoping swifter updates will be pending the future, including this one!**

**Warnings:**** Elric stubbornness, Brass stubbornness, police work kind of things.**

* * *

Grissom waited by the phone for what felt like ages. He knew it was illogical; the likelihood of a call right now was low. But he couldn't help but hope. Ed was impulsive—if anything was going to happen, he would be the first to know, because it would be something so inherently _Ed_-ish that they would have no choice but to call him.

The secretary abruptly knocked on his door, and he glanced up to see her carrying in a small pile of mail. With a sudden lurch in his heart, he stood and took the envelopes from her, flicking through them without finesse. _Bill, evidence requisition, court order, bill..._

Nothing.

He sighed heavily and sat back down as the secretary backed out quietly. He had expected something by now. If Ed had been targeted again, there would have been a letter. Or some kind of contact. _Anything_.

And yet, it had been nearly two days and there was no sign.

Grissom felt resignation settle in as he sank back against his chair. At this rate they were never going to find him.

When the phone rang not two seconds later, he nearly fell out of his chair.

Somewhat breathless, he steadied himself and reached out to pick up the handset. "Grissom."

"Grissom? Mr. Gil Grissom?" asked a breathless young voice from the other end.

His eyebrows came together. "Yes. Gil Grissom, Las Vegas Crime Lab."

"Oh, thank god," breathed the kid. "You need to help me. My brother's in trouble, and it took me too long to find your number and I—"

"Your brother? What's wrong with him? Why haven't you gone to the police?"

There was a deep sigh from the other end, as though the boy were steadying himself. "He told me to come to you."

Grissom paused, a suspicion rising, and sat forward in his chair. "What's your name?"

"I'm Alphonse Elric, sir. Edward is my brother."

* * *

The kid was much smaller than he'd expected.

Grissom pulled up to the gas station with some trepidation, looking around as he got out of the SUV. There was no one outside, so he moved to the door and opened it. The inside was typical, except for the small boy sitting on a chair by the cashier's counter, swinging his legs back and forth agitatedly.

Alphonse Elric was a tiny kid. He was barely over five feet if he was an inch, and Grissom would bet money that he didn't weigh more than ninety pounds at the most. There was an unhealthy air about him, a pallor that spoke of too little time in the sun and too little exercise. His hair was a ratty, dirty blonde and looked like it hadn't seen a brush in over a week, and his clothes hung on him like they'd been pulled out of a plus sized bargain bin. And yet, despite that, there was a gleam in the kid's eyes that spoke of the same determination that Ed had, and Grissom could never have mistaken them as anything other than brothers, despite their physical differences.

"Mr. Grissom?" Alphonse asked without hesitance as he got down off of the stool. Grissom nodded, and the boy held out his hand for a firm shake. "I'm Al Elric. Ed told me to find you."

"It's good to finally meet you, Al," Grissom said kindly. "Your brother has told me a lot about you." He made note of the small frown that marred Al's face at that comment before nodding briskly. "We should get back to the lab. I think you have a lot to tell me."

"We have to help my brother first," Al insisted, even as he followed the CSI out the door. "I promised we'd go back for him."

Grissom looked over his shoulder as he opened the passenger door of the SUV. "I need to know what we're dealing with before we can take any action, Al."

The stubborn set of Al's mouth as he climbed into the passenger seat was pure Edward, but unlike his elder brother he didn't say anything as Grissom closed the door and he put on his seatbelt. The CSI climbed into the driver's seat and pulled out of the gas station. For the first few moments Grissom could only observe quietly as Al fidgeted; one moment his hands were on his knees, kneading his clothes, and the next they were tracing invisible lines on his forearms before lacing together in a stoic attempt to be still until the cycle started over again.

"So, tell me what happened," Grissom finally said as they pulled onto the freeway.

Al took a deep breath. "From the beginning? Or from where Ed comes in?"

Grissom turned the options in his head for a moment. "I think we can spare time later for the whole story. We need to help your brother now, so the most prudent information would be where he is and why you're here."

Al nodded and sighed. "I was bait for Ed."

Grissom blinked and took his eyes off the road for a moment to stare at Al. "Bait? With whom?"

"The psychopath who's been killing people recently."

The CSI felt himself reel slightly before getting a hold of his emotions. "...Al, maybe you should start at the beginning after all. Or at least an abridged version."

The boy rubbed his face. "He was using me to get to Ed ever since he found out Brother was with you. Sending notes, things like that. I couldn't say no, because he always had someone watching Ed, and he said as soon as I didn't do as I was told then Brother was in danger." Al's voice was tight and controlled, but Grissom could hear a wealth of frustrated and worried emotions behind it. He glanced over again to see Al's fists clenched on his knees and his jaw grinding together.

Something in his mind flipped slightly, and he looked at the boy again. Give him a hat and some gloves...

"You were the one who gave me the note about Ed in the street."

Al looked up suddenly, his eyes wide and startled before settling once more with a sigh. "Yeah. I couldn't tell you anything, though. I didn't even know who you were..."

Grissom took a deep breath. Reminded himself that Al was only what, eleven? Twelve? He couldn't be expected to know what to do in that kind of reverse hostage situation. But it didn't make his frustration at the entire scenario any less.

"So he used you to trap Ed, then?" he asked eventually. "Is that what the phone call was about?"

"Yeah. He called the place Ed was staying and taunted him to come and find me."

"Where were you? Where did Ed go?"

Al shrugged helplessly. "I think it was a warehouse. Big, full of junk. I was tied to a chair when Ed showed up, and then the guy... he had a bat, and..." His voice cracked slightly, and Al swallowed. "Ed couldn't fight back because he was hurt."

Grissom gave Al a sharp look as he pulled off of the freeway. "Ed was hurt?"

The younger Elric made a helpless sound, wringing his hands nervously. "I don't know. He wouldn't tell me what was wrong, but something was hurting him. I couldn't find anything when I woke up later and checked him over, but there was definitely something wrong."

"Where did you wake up?"

"A stone room. That's all I could really tell. Ed was knocked out, probably some kind of drug, but he came around a bit after me. He tried to get out, and even used alc..."

Grissom frowned as Al trailed off. "Used what?"

Al pursed his lips before his face blanked. "He used his automail arm to try and take down the door. Then the man showed up and he..." the boy took a deep breath. "He threw me, and Ed got part of his automail ripped off and his nose broken."

Grissom winced. He'd had enough broken noses in his lifetime, and from what he'd learned about Ed's automail, having it damaged would not be pleasant or easy to fix. "Are you alright?"

Al waved his hand in the air. "I'm fine. But it's Ed we need to worry about."

"Where is he now? The same place?"

Al shook his head. "No. We were moved; don't know how. It was probably a drug in the water, but we woke up in a wine cellar. The stairs were gone, but there were still racks, so we used them to climb out. It looked like a country house, and there was a road nearby. When we were leaving an alarm went off, and we ran, but then... there were dogs."

Grissom's heart sank as he realized where this was going. "How did you escape?"

Al swallowed. "Ed told me to keep running. Told me to contact you however I could. And then he turned around and tried to hold them off while I made it down to the road and stopped a car. I couldn't... I couldn't go back for him, because the woman in the car wouldn't have been able to do anything, and I know I'm not strong enough to take on dogs, but I just... I just left him there!"

They pulled up to the crime lab and Grissom put the vehicle in park before turning to the distressed boy. "Alphonse. There's nothing you could have done. Doing like Ed said and coming to me was the best choice. Now we can go back there and find him. We wouldn't know where you were if you'd gone back. Don't beat yourself up over this."

Al's face was pained and guilty, but he nodded sharply. "I know. But it doesn't change the fact that I left him behind."

"And now you're going back." Grissom unbuckled his seat belt and opened the door. "And we're going to save him."

* * *

Brass had no objections to assembling a team in less than an hour. When he and his men showed up at the crime lab, Grissom's eyebrows rose.

"I thought you didn't like Ed."

Brass raised an eyebrow in return. "Think I'm gonna turn down a chance to catch the bastard who's been killing women in my city? Not a chance." He turned to walk down the hallway to the briefing room. "Besides, the kid kind of grows on you."

Which in Jim Brass' language meant that yes, he liked Ed and would probably be at least a little bit crushed if the kid got killed. Grissom couldn't help but smile ruefully as he followed.

Al was already in the room, his face set in a stubborn frown that told Grissom he wasn't going to move from that spot. There were a number of officers already present, and several of them were giving Al sharp looks that said they thought a boy had no place in something like this. Grissom couldn't help but agree, and he worried over how the gentler Elric would react to such animosity.

Brass pulled out a chair across the table from Al and straddled it, resting his arms on the back. "So. You're Elric's kid brother."

Al nodded sharply. "Yes sir. Alphonse Elric."

Brass' eyes scanned over the boy and obviously found him lacking. "We're gonna find him, Alphonse, but I think you'd be best served waiting here with Catherine."

The younger Elric's eyes were hard as he shook his head. "No sir. I'm coming with you."

"This is police work, son."

Grissom half-expected a full outburst like those that Ed seemed so fond of, but what came out of Al's mouth was not anywhere close.

"I've had my fair share of what you call police work, sir." Al's voice was respectful, but his tone brooked no argument. "I've seen battles. I'm not a child who needs to be left behind lines in order to keep him safe. You've known my brother long enough to know that we aren't children, and we aren't to be underestimated." Before Brass could open his mouth to counter, Al continued. "Besides, that's my brother you're going after. I'm the only one who knows where he is, and I left him behind. It's my responsibility to find him and do everything in my power to make sure he's safe. You can't take that right away from me, sir. Not without a fight."

The entire room was silent for a few moments as the men digested his words.

"Well, I think that settles it," said Brass suddenly. Grissom felt his eyebrows creep up his face not for the first time that day. "What can you tell us before we go, kid?"

Al took a deep breath, and the fists he'd been clenching on the table relaxed. "It's a country house. I can give you directions if we make our way back to the gas station Grissom picked me up from. Or if you have a map...?" A satellite image was produced quickly on Brass' cell phone. Al leaned over and studied it for a moment before gesturing to a long stretch of road to the west of the city. "It was somewhere around here, if my memory's right. I'll know for sure once I see it, but I'm about 90% positive it's around here."

Brass studied where Al was pointing. "I know the area. Rich townhouses out that way. Makes sense that they'd have a wine cellar of some kind. What'd the house look like?"

"I didn't get too much of a look at it," Al sighed. "But it had a lot of windows and a copse of trees just off to one side. I think there was a fountain to the left of the door on the lawn, and a hill just before the road."

Brass nodded intently. "I can think of a couple of houses out that way kinda like that. We'll see what comes up when we head out."

"Is there anything else you can tell us before we go?" Grissom asked.

Al bit his lip. "He's got dogs. At least two of them, probably Rottweilers. Big ones, for sure. And there's an alarm on the doorway that's tripped by someone crossing the threshold, I think. I could draw you a diagram of the layout I can remember..."

Grissom found himself unsurprised by the precision of Al's drawing when he finished it two minutes later. The lines were unerringly straight, and he'd seen the boy measuring out distances with his thumb, as if comparing them to physical distances and drawing perfectly to scale. It reminded the CSI strongly of Edward.

"Alright, I think we've got enough," Brass said finally, standing. "Davidson, Arlan, you're with me. Thomas, Morley, follow behind us. Gris, you take the kid."

Al was already standing by Grissom's side as the CSI turned to Brass. "We're taking him with us?"

Brass raised his eyebrow. "You gonna try and leave him behind?" He gestured at the boy, whose mouth was set resolutely. "If we leave him, he'll probably pull some mojo like his brother did and come anyway."

Grissom couldn't argue with that kind of logic.

* * *

The house looked perfectly innocent from the road as they pulled up on the shoulder and climbed out of the cruiser. Brass looked around critically, trying to spot anything out of place. His boys climbed out after him, hands already on their side-arms and alert for anything amiss.

It was quiet.

"Alright, I want two men at my back at all times," Brass said as the rest of his men (plus one CSI and one hanger-on) assembled outside of their vehicles. "This bastard's been known to blow things up, so we're gonna make sure he doesn't have the chance to catch on to us. The path straight down from the door's safe; our boys ran it just a few hours ago." He gave Al a significant look, and the brunette nodded seriously. "Follow the invisible brick road, kids, or you might get a landmine surprise. Al, you're gonna be our spotter. Stay behind Gris, but don't let anyone leave the place you and your brother ran. I'm assuming you remember where it was?" Al nodded. "Alright. I'm not expecting it, 'cause we had dogs runnin' free around here, but you never know. Stick close."

With that, the group started walking under Al's direction.

As they crested the hill, Brass dropped to his stomach and motioned for everyone to wait. His handgun was out and at the ready; no Rottie was gonna come sneaking up and take a chunk out of him. Not today.

"Looks clear," he murmured before standing slowly. "Stay sharp, boys."

Ten feet closer to the house, Brass stopped again, but this time it was with because of a sharp nose and a sinking heart.

He knelt slowly and ran his fingers just above the short desert grass, not quite touching it or the red that coated it.

"Blood," he said quietly. "We got an injury here. Looks fresh, just a few hours old. Someone's bleeding pretty bad."

There was a sharp intake of breath behind him, and he turned to see Al's face going white even as the boy set his jaw. "The dogs," was all he said. Brass understood.

"Alright boys, this just got more serious."

The rest of the walk—more like a stalk, if he was really gonna label it—to the front door was uneventful. But, rather than making him relax, it just put his nerves more on edge, and he could feel the same in his team. After all, the last time something had seemed too easy, Doyland had ended up in the hospital, and Brass' hearing would probably never be the same.

He held up a hand to stop the men following him as he examined the front stoop. Stepping carefully over the concrete, he ran a hand carefully over the welcome mat before lifting a corner of it.

_Pressure switch under the mat for the alarm,_ he deduced, giving a significant look to his men. _Don't step on it._

The front door opened silently and without incident. Thomas and Davidson had their side-arms trained on the doorway as the inside was revealed, but there was nothing there. Gesturing with his head, Brass led the way into the house, avoiding the front mat. Morley stayed out front on the lookout.

The inside was almost exactly as Al had said it would be; in fact, if he didn't know any better, he would've thought that the kid's drawing of the layout was actually copied from a blueprint. _Looks like Ed's not the only smart kid in his family_, he mused.

Glancing around the foyer, the first thing Brass noticed was a door just down the hall and left of the entrance. It wouldn't have caught his attention, except for the large, ragged hole in the middle of the wood.

"What the hell...?" he heard someone whisper barely audibly behind him, and he shared the sentiment. Stepping carefully, he peered through the hole into darkness before shining his flashlight around cautiously. When nothing caught his eye, he pulled the door—which was surprisingly unlocked—open and stepped inside.

The room was square and made entirely of cinderblock. A switch by the door turned on the bare bulb attached to the ceiling, revealing... absolutely nothing. Brass stepped into the empty room carefully, eyes trained on where he was planting his feet, until he could get a full view of the place.

It looked entirely normal, except for being entirely empty. The cinderblock walls were the most interesting feature, and when he looked more closely he could see that the wall on his far left was slightly lighter-coloured than the rest. With careful steps, he moved toward it and ran a hand along one of the joins between the bricks.

"Looks like this wall's newer," he muttered just loud enough for the men behind him to hear. A moment later, he heard a sharp intake of breath. Turning, he saw Al standing in the doorway, eyes wide and calculating.

"This is the first room," he said lowly. "He didn't move us somewhere else; he just threw us in the basement."

"Looks like it used to be a garage," Grissom observed from behind the kid. "With the door bricked over."

Brass looked back at the wall and couldn't help but agree. With a motion of his hand, he signaled them to go back out into the hallway. As he re-emerged, he could see some of his officers at the end of the hall and in the kitchen, and he looked over at Al for direction. The kid pointed down the hall and to the left silently.

They followed it to the turn, and then followed that hallway until they found the door to the cellar. It was closed, and Brass gritted his teeth as Thomas stepped forward to open it.

The door creaked slightly as it swung open, and Brass swung his gun and his flashlight down. Shadows danced off of brick walls and old oak wine racks—one of which was positioned clearly as a ladder beneath the door—and a cockroach skittered away from the light. But there was no Ed.

"Check the rest of the house," Brass whispered. He could see Al out of the corner of his eye, peering down into the cellar as well. He pulled back and turned to Grissom. "Take Al back outside with Morley."

The boy looked ready to protest, but Grissom's firm hand on his shoulder stopped him. Al closed his mouth and nodded sharply before being led back the way they had come.

Brass gave the cellar one last sweep before shutting the door once more and following his men up the stairs and searching the rest of the house.

* * *

"Nothing," Brass sighed as he stepped out the door to see Grissom and Al sitting on the porch with Morley standing just off to one side, his handgun held loosely by his side. Thomas was already disabling the pressure switch under the front mat.

"Nothing? You're sure?" Al asked anxiously as he stood.

Brass shook his head with a sigh. "House is clean. Nothing but a few old couches and a broken toilet upstairs. The garage bears some looking into, but the rest looks like it's been abandoned for a good few years."

"But he was _here_," Al insisted.

"Well, he ain't here now," Brass countered. Then he sighed again. "Look, kid, it's been a few hours, he was probably moved someplace else. After you escaped, he wouldn't stay in the same place. He would've known you'd come back."

Al's face was pinched as he looked down at his feet. "I thought we might have been fast enough."

Grissom's hand landed on his shoulder, and Al looked up. "We'll find him," the CSI said calmly. "I promise you we will."

The boy's face looked so open and vulnerable in that moment, before his mouth set firmly and his eyes gained a heavy, determined look that belied his age and made him look more like his brother than ever. "Good."

Grissom's eyes rose to meet Brass'. "What can we get from the house?"

Brass thought for a moment. "Let me do another sweep of the place. We need to be careful with this case; it's burned us before." He grimaced. "Then you can call in a few more people and give it a good going-over, find whatever's there. Who knows, we might get lucky for once."

Grissom nodded tightly. His hand on Al's shoulder tightened. "I'll have Catherine come get Alphonse."

The brunette tensed. "I'm not going anywhere. I can help!"

"Al." Grissom took the boy by both of his shoulders and met his eyes steadily. "We've appreciated your help so far. And I would personally love to have any help you can give us from this point forward, especially if you're anything like your brother, which I don't doubt." Al opened his mouth, confused, before Grissom continued. "But it's not my choice in this. It's lab policy. If anyone has any potential of compromising the evidence, it can be thrown out. No matter if it helps us find your brother, it still wouldn't be accepted in court. The man who did this would go free."

Al ground his teeth. "So I can't do anything."

"You can do plenty. You can keep yourself safe."

Al snorted. "Yeah, heard that before." Before Grissom could try to placate him, the boy sighed. "Fine. But as soon as you know something, you have to tell me."

Grissom nodded seriously. Brass laughed slightly.

"You sure you're related to Ed, kid?" he asked good-naturedly. "He would've pitched a hissy fit all over the place."

Al flashed him a quick, sad smile. "I've had to deal with Ed for years, sir. You learn how to be patient and to judge when you can't win something."

"Sounds like a good exercise." Grissom smiled slightly. "I'll go call Catherine and get a few more people over here. Brass, let's get this done as soon as possible."

The police chief nodded and stepped back inside, calling to his men.

* * *

**I thank everyone who reviewed the last chapter, especially those who were understanding about the frankly unforgivable, unannounced hiatus. Things have, indeed, gotten better, but not completely. I'm hoping life will stop throwing me curveballs sometime in the near future.**

**As always, wonderful thanks to my beta sama-chan.  
**

**The next update should be out within the next week or so! Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	30. A Darker Meaning

**Yay for getting a second job and then hitting dress rehearsal week for the musical I'm in! (waves a white flag of surrender to exhaustion)**

**Warnings:**** Some language, injuries, and dark imagery. Also psychotic serial killers and their off-kilter mood swings and strange (but disturbing) taunts. This story is about to get its darkest in the next few chapters; you have been warned.**

* * *

Ed didn't so much wake as slowly claw his way to consciousness with the reluctance of a cat being forced to swim across a lake.

"Son of a bitch," he mumbled through half-numb lips, feeling it pull on the ball of pain that was undoubtedly his still-broken nose. Unless it had been long enough for it have healed. How long had it been? Probably only a few hours. Or a few hours that felt like days. Or a few days that felt like hours. Maybe a week or two?

_God, my head hurts._

But that wasn't all that hurt. Ever so slowly, as his thoughts started to align with what he hoped was the waking world, he wanted less and less to actually be awake. Slowly, starting from the ache radiating out from his nose, pain painted lines down his neck and around the back of his head. It stretched down his neck to his shoulders. The right flared and went numb again; the left continued down his arm to sharp spikes down his forearm that pulsed with his heartbeat. His chest was riddled with swathes that pressed down on his lungs, making it nearly impossible to take in what little breath his nose allowed him. His left leg was the only part of him that didn't feel like it had been pulverized; his right didn't bear thinking about at the moment.

With a groan (which he immediately regretted as it robbed him of what breath he'd managed to take in), Ed attempted to open his eyes. Only one eyelid seemed to be operating properly; the other was swollen shut and opened only a slit. He squinted as best he could in anticipation of another bright light, but got a surprise.

It was black.

For half a second his heart stuttered in his chest and he panicked, sure that he'd gone blind. But, after only a moment, the shadowy morass in front of him resolved into barely-illuminated silhouettes. He couldn't make out details of any kind, but at least he wasn't blind. It was a small enough blessing in what he assumed was a horrible situation.

Having determined the relative safety of his current position, he took as deep a breath he could and closed his eyes again, prepared to assess his condition as much as possible.

_Always figure out your assets before you figure out a solution_, he repeated to himself, hearing Teacher's voice in his head. This probably wasn't a situation she'd been referring to at the time, but it was still relevant. If he was in no condition to fight, then he would have to figure out a better way to get out of this mess.

First things first: Nose. Still broken. Easy enough.

Head: Okay, that's harder. He knew he'd had a concussion before. _Before...?_ Before. With Al. Yeah, that sounded right. Before, with Al. So he'd hit his head. Maybe hit it again. Who knows? It hurt. Probably gonna be dizzy. Okay.

Next item of pain: _Chest. Feels like I've been beaten with a crowbar. Iron? Maybe. Could alchemize that. Beat him with his own weapon._

He gave himself a mental shake. Back on track.

_So, chest. _Bruises for sure, maybe broken ribs. _Definitely broken ribs_, he amended as he took a deep breath and set off a chain reaction of chest-pain-wince-face-pain. _Maybe something worse_. Nothing at the back of his throat. No blood. Probably safe. Maybe.

Next bit, arms. Leave the automail, not important. Okay, so it's important. Yeah. Important. But not right now. Could be bleeding out. Left arm first.

Painful. Mostly the forearm, what's wrong with it? Can't assess.

He took another shallowly-deep breath and opened his eyes once more. Slowly and carefully, he raised—lowered? turned?—his head to look at his left arm. All he could see was a shaky silhouette that was hopefully his limb. Okay. It was there. Good. Now what was wrong with it?

He tried to raise his arm but was met with resistance and pain.

_Bad plan. _Okay. Reassess. Something heavy; not just pain. Something on his wrist. Maybe something more... Something hard? Okay. Pressure on wrist, flat surface on forearm. So. Tied to something.

He took a minute to congratulate himself on that train of thought before he lost it again.

So, left arm tied to something. Maybe a splint. But it didn't feel broken. So, chair arm?

Ed closed his eyes and stayed completely still for a moment. _Am I even sitting up?_ He wondered idly. After another minute, he determined that yes, he must be. Unless he was lying down and everything was completely messed up.

No, sitting up. Roll with it.

To test the theory, he let his head fall forwards slightly, and then turned it from side to side. With his eyes closed, the head rush wasn't as bad as he expected, but it still made him want to throw up everything that wasn't in his stomach anymore. But it was worth it—he hadn't hit anything. So he must not be lying down. No floor contact—that was good, right? Hopefully.

Okay. Assess again. Sitting up, arm tied to a chair. Automail's debatable. Can't test that yet.

He gave his mind another moment to try and figure out the problem with his left arm before giving up. It was too hard, especially without being able to see anything. The leg was too hard, too. Just too hard. It'd be easier to sleep. Yeah, that sounded like a good plan. Would hurt his head less.

The next thing he knew, bright light was burning through his eyelids and his right shoulder was being gripped with a bone-shattering force that ripped a startled cry from his swollen lips.

"Wakey wakey, eggs and bakey!" a voice sing-songed in his ear loudly. "Don't want to sleep through everything and miss the show, do you Eddy boy?"

His eyes were open, but all he saw was a swirl of colours as his eyes tried to adjust to the light and his brain failed to process the spinning world around him. Dizziness made his stomach turn violently, and he only stopped himself from throwing up with a forced effort of will that he'd drilled into himself years ago.

The world slowly came back into relative focus as he sat and blinked, but the hand kept digging into his shoulder, sparking lines of agony up through his neck and around his chest. His vision continued to swim slightly on the edges as his eyes—one working and the other not quite functional—darted around his immediate line of sight, trying to catalog and record information. White plaster, white plaster, bright, drilling into _my head_—

"You with me here, Ed?" the voice demanded, and he felt a tug on his shoulder that almost managed to tear another shout of pain from his throat as he was spun around with the chair—_obviously a chair, upright, the roof's above_—to face his tormentor.

It took a few more seconds for the room to settle once more, and still it swam back and forth in his vision. The figure in front of him could have been anyone; he couldn't focus properly on anything.

"C'mon, you're gonna miss the show!"

All he could do was try to hold his head as still as possible and squeeze his eyes shut against the bright light that was still trying to burn holes in his skull.

"Hey. I'm still talking to you, boy." The hand holding his shoulder shook him, and his head rattled on his neck nauseatingly. He squeezed his eyes tighter, ignoring the pain in his face in favour of just trying to maintain whatever dignity he still had. He couldn't think, couldn't do anything—

There was the sound of a heavy sigh, and the hand finally left his shoulder. Ed felt the relief like a physical thing, but didn't have time to process it completely before the hand was digging into the top of his head, twisting his hair and pressing against the knots on his skull. He gritted his teeth as hard as he could, trying to predict what was happening around his swirling thoughts that _just wouldn't line up_—

And then there was the press of cold steel against his throat, and his thoughts became a razor blade honed in on that one little line of metal to the exclusion of everything else. Confusion and shock were immediately put on hold in favour of staying completely still. His senses suddenly felt heightened, and he could feel the breath of his captor on his neck.

"I could slit your throat right now." The words were hissed into his ear, a sharp contrast to the light, taunting voice of before. Ed suppressed the chill that tried to run down his spine. "Just a flick of the wrist, and naughty little Edward would be bleeding out all over my nice clean floor. All that red; wouldn't it be nice? An accent colour. How would you like that?"

Ed didn't respond. He didn't move at all. He could feel the blade against his fragile skin; the steady pulse of his heartbeat against the cold metal. It was just a hair's width away from taking his life. _And there was nothing he could do about it._

They sat there, the two of them, suspended in a dangerous limbo, for what felt like eternity. Ed could feel the hand in his hair tightening, and he suppressed his wince at the increasing pain. Any move could be his last.

"Buuuut that'd be no fun."

He felt the knife shift, but before he could even realize he was still alive the hand in his hair was tightening even further and the world shifted around him, this time even more violently than the last. A series of sharp pains at the back of his head tore a small cry from his lips before it was suddenly released and he felt himself falling up-down-sideways into something hard and unyielding.

* * *

There was silence.

There was cold, and then there was warm darkness.

There was a white wall, and a band of light across it. Then there was darkness again.

There was a voice, and a whisper, and then a rush of sound and a promise and darkness.

There were swirling colours and pressure and hard ground and red across the floor and darkness.

There was silence.

There was stillness.

* * *

The first thing he noticed was the lack of sound. The rushing he hadn't realized had invaded his ears was absent.

The second thing he noticed was the clarity. He felt his thoughts responding to his call without delay, instead of sluggishly beating their way through his head until they finally reached his cognitive centre.

And the third thing he noticed was the pain.

He shivered as waves of agony ripped across his body. He couldn't remember if it had been this bad before. Before was... when? How long ago was that?

He opened his eyes to a band of light splayed across the ceiling above him. He moved his left arm slightly and felt pain spike, but he was nothing if not stubborn. With a hiss of both pain and irritation, he put his hand beneath him and, in one jerky but quick motion, managed to lever himself into an upright position. He waited for the world to spin, and was relieved when all it did was wobble slightly and then settle. As quickly as he could, he shifted so that he was leaning against the wall and took the weight off of his arm.

Okay. So. Arm was not good.

In the half-light, he found that he could properly examine the appendage. With some trepidation, he looked down at his forearm and swore.

Through the dirt and grime that covered it, he could pick out at least four large punctures, arranged in an arc, that were wide and inflamed and slowly oozing clear fluid. He was sure that if he were to touch them, they would be burning hot. If he didn't know any better, he would say that it was a dog bite.

_Which... it is_, he recalled with sudden clarity. The dogs. He'd been protecting Al from them.

It felt like years ago.

He groaned and let his arm fall back, already exhausted from the small effort required. A chill was starting from deep in his core and working its way out. He didn't even want to look at his automail, but he knew he had to. He steeled himself, and looked down.

His eyes widened in surprise.

Despite its already sorry state, Ed could honestly say that his automail arm didn't look any worse than it had previously. His shoulder hurt like he'd been trampled by a horse or similar, but the arm itself was in decent shape (read: not really working but not totally in pieces). He glanced down at his legs, feeling slightly more confident.

He groaned as he realized that his pants were in shreds. And, now that he thought about it, so were his jacket and coat.

"Goddamnit, those were good leather," he groused quietly, more in an attempt to distract himself than anything else. The automail leg looked well enough, but closer inspection of his right leg showed a number of sluggishly oozing slashes along his calf and thigh, and his skin looked more purple and black than pink at this point. He swore under his breath when he tried to bend his knee as his muscles protested loudly.

Leaning back against the wall, Ed stared up at the ceiling with a sigh. So, physical state wasn't great. The chill had developed into a light, full-body shake that wouldn't go away no matter how hard he pushed it down. He had a fully functional leg and one other that was probably about thirty percent functional. One arm that was in pain but usable, and the other that was basically totalled but still fixable. He contemplated using alchemy to achieve that, but felt that he should probably figure out his current position before doing anything that might jeopardize his ability to escape. (And if he stoically ignored the small voice in his head that was telling him alchemy was a bad idea for other reasons, then that was his own business.)

Blinking, he finally focused on the ceiling. Plain white stippling, like in most houses. Lifting his head carefully, he looked around the room. White walls to all four corners, with no convenient wine racks to use in an escape. The main door of the room looked like plain wood from here, but he couldn't be sure. For all he knew, it was reinforced with steel.

Turning his head again, he paused. _What the hell...?_

He turned his head again, and then reached back to feel the back of it.

"You gotta be frickin' _kidding me_!"

* * *

Al tried not to be too anxious and in the way as he peered over at the table from his seat in the corner.

Sara looked up at him with her eyebrow raised. "You know you can ask if you're curious, right?"

He felt his face flush slightly. "I know. I just don't want to be a bother."

The woman smiled kindly at him. "It's okay, Al. I can work and talk; I've done enough with Greg to have to develop that skill."

Al gave her a small smile that quickly fell from his face. He found that he really liked all of the CSIs so far; after Catherine had picked him up from the house and taken him back to the lab, he'd been introduced to Warrick, Greg, and Sara, and then to Nick when he and Grissom had returned from the country house. All of them were incredibly friendly, if a bit brusque because they were in a hurry and work had to be done. Over the past twenty four hours he had been subjected to a short but pointed medical examination ("Undernourished but fine otherwise. Make sure he gets plenty of calories and don't let him skip meals.") and then passed around from CSI to CSI—watching Greg run things through machines that he professed were "lacking in finesse" and complaining about the wreck of his own lab, which Al had found amusing until he'd actually seen the state of the room as he'd been ushered past it; watching Warrick and Nick toss pictures up onto a glass table and arrange them in certain ways and stare at them for a few minutes before working with something they called a 'computer'; sitting with Catherine and eating the admittedly too-large lunch that was offered to him late in the evening; napping fitfully on a couch in their break room as Grissom worked at the table; and finally, sitting off to the side as Sara pulled out large files of paper and arranged them across the table.

"What exactly are you doing?"

Sara looked up at him, and he realized he'd been staring for a few minutes and ducked his head. She gave a small chuckle.

"I'm trying to find a correlation between the victims," she explained a moment later. "Times and places they were found, where they disappeared from, distinguishing features, that kind of thing."

Al felt his heart sink slightly. "Is... does Ed have a file in there?"

She looked down with a frown and a sigh. "We're still looking for him, and he's just labelled missing at the moment, but... yeah."

"And you have the warehouse where we were taken and the country house in there, right?"

She nodded tersely.

Al pursed his lips. He'd had a long session with Grissom in which he'd had to explain as best he could where he had been for the last week. Grissom had asked Al how he had ended up here, how he'd been caught. Al could honestly say that he had no idea. Everything before he opened his eyes to a locked and sealed basement was darkness. He had shaky memories of his brother and other figures in a large hall, but it wasn't clear enough to remember what had happened.

There hadn't been much there to use afterwards; he knew for sure he had been at a house on a street that he'd pointed out to Grissom, but he hadn't been allowed out of it except to wander around for fifteen minutes until he ran into the lead CSI. The rest of the time he had been locked in the basement and forced to pen shaky letters that had later been delivered to the lab.

"I couldn't say no," Al had said quietly, feeling ashamed. "He said he always had someone watching Ed, and that if I did anything wrong... He proved it when he poisoned Brother. I couldn't say no, especially when giving you that letter was the only way to save his life." He took a deep breath and sighed it out shakily, trying to channel his emotions into something useful like Teacher had taught them. "He said that was how he knew what was happening; he always had someone watching. I don't know who, but if you find that person, maybe you can find Ed."

Grissom put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "Thank you for telling me, Alphonse." He waited until Al looked up at him and then fixed him with a steady stare. "And it wasn't your fault. What he did you is called coercion, and no one would ever blame you for it." Al nodded, unconvinced, and Grissom squeezed his shoulder again reassuringly. "We're going to find Ed."

He tried to smile, but it came out forced and tired. "Thanks," he said anyway, doing his best to sound reassured. He knew it came out ineffective when Grissom's eyebrows fell and he offered a small, sincere smile that said everything.

And now he was watching Sara organize files about the people killed by the man who'd kept him captive for all this time. He wondered idly, as he sat there, why they trusted him to be so close to their evidence. Based on what Grissom had said at the country house, he'd fully expected to be banned from being within twenty feet of anything related to his and Ed's case. He'd also heard bits and pieces of the story about the exploding machine in Greg's lab (mostly as complaints from Greg himself, and several conversations about the results of said explosion) and had been sure that he would be relegated to a cell with an armed guard watching him twenty four seven. He'd even asked Brass about it as the man had escorted him from Catherine's office to the break room—the stipulation if he was going to stay at the lab, and he wasn't about to argue about having an escort everywhere if it meant that he got to be on the front lines when (and if, his traitorous brain added) they found anything about Ed. The officer had snorted loudly before saying something about his brother and how they'd figured out that caging Elrics was a bad idea in general before dropping him into Grissom's hands and walking away to do whatever it was he had been doing.

Al hadn't been quite curious enough to ask for _that_ story quite yet; he had a feeling it was long and involved and full of Ed's impulsivity. In other words, not a story he would be particularly thrilled to hear at the moment. Save it for when (_if_) Ed was back and he could yell at his brother properly.

He was jerked out of his musings when the door to the room opened and Warrick leaned through. "We've got another letter. Well, package this time. Grissom wants the file of what we've already gotten from him."

Sara nodded without question and pulled another file out of the cabinet against the wall. From what Al could see, it was filled with sheets covered in what looked like plastic. She handed it to Warrick before meeting the man's eyes.

"I'll stay here," she said suddenly, and Warrick nodded. Al's eyebrows came together, wondering why that needed to be said. Unless...

"Is this about Ed?"

Sara and Warrick both looked over and then back at each other.

"It is, isn't it?" Al stood slowly. "What have you found?"

"We still need to go over it," Warrick said firmly. "It could be nothing."

"Let me help," Al insisted, and gritted his teeth when both CSIs shook their heads. "Why not? He's my brother!"

"Because we don't know what will turn up," Warrick replied. "Until we know exactly what we're dealing with, you're staying here with Sara." Al opened his mouth to argue, before noticing the firmly set jaws of both man and woman. They weren't going to budge on this. Stiffly, he sat back down. "We won't leave you out of the loop, Al," Warrick reassured him as he pulled the door open again. "Stay with Sara for now." With that, he stepped out. The door closed behind him with a very final _shwick_.

There was an oppressive silence in the room for a full minute after the man left before Sara finally stepped over to Al and put a hand on his shoulder. He contemplated shrugging it off, but couldn't fault her for trying to show some sympathy.

"He means it," she said quietly. "We won't keep you in the dark. It's your brother, after all."

Al nodded noncommittally and leaned back in the chair. Sara sighed and returned to the table to continue sorting through files.

_What could possibly be so ambiguous that I can't help_? Al wondered.

* * *

Grissom almost sighed in relief when Warrick returned from the room where Sara was working without a dirty blond-haired Elric in tow. "I was worried Al would follow you," he confessed as Warrick entered the makeshift Trace lab and gave him a raised eyebrow. The tall man nodded seriously.

"He wanted to come, but I made sure Sara stayed with him. I didn't think that he needed to see whatever... _this_ turns out to be." He gestured at the box sitting innocently on Grissom's desk. It was square, about a foot and a half by a foot and a half, and wrapped in innocent-looking brown paper with an innocuous—and false—return address printed on top.

"Well, at least it's not a bomb this time," Grissom sighed. "I had it scanned. Nothing metal or any chemical that would set off our detectors."

"So that leaves biological weapons," Warrick concluded. Grissom nodded.

"Or something entirely innocent."

The raised eyebrow that earned him was entirely deserved, but a man could hope once in awhile.

"Well, we gonna do this?" Warrick asked after a moment, and Grissom nodded, pulling out two masks, safety glasses, and latex gloves from a shelf near his desk. "Whatever it is, I just hope it doesn't decide to eat me." The lead CSI appreciated the levity as he donned his mask and pulled the gloves onto his hands. Warrick slipped the glasses onto his face and snapped the gloves. "Ready when you are."

Grissom pulled the box closer to the edge of the table and picked up the box cutters sitting on the table beside it. Slitting it in a straight line down the top face, he looked over at Warrick, who nodded, and pulled the two sides up to reveal the box's contents.

He swore his heart stopped for a moment.

It was a head.

It took a full minute for his mind to catch up with what his eyes were seeing and convince him that, yes, it was a head; but no, it wasn't Edward Elric's.

Terse silence filled the room before Warrick let out a breath and took a step back from the box. "Whatever bastard thought of this is sick."

"We already knew that," Grissom murmured as he reach into the box and pulled the head out.

Only it wasn't actually a head; or at least, not a real one. Now that he actually got a good look at it, it was made of foam. The general facial structure was carved out, like a mannequin's head, and a crude smile and eyes had been drawn on with black sharpie.

On the other hand, the hair looked real enough.

He set the head down on a sheet of plastic that Warrick pulled up for him next to the box. The other CSI was hissing through his teeth as he stared at it.

"Is that real?" he asked cautiously.

Grissom nodded. "The blood certainly looks real enough."

And there was quite a bit of blood. It dotted the white foam in several places, and was caked into the blonde hair that had been crudely glued to the back of the head. The blonde hair that was woven into a braid and tied with a dark elastic, and looked sickeningly familiar.

"Holy shit," Warrick muttered, touching the end of the braid. "Is that..."

Grissom's jaw clenched. "I think so."

He sighed deeply and put his hands on the table, staring down at the crude pastiche of Ed's hair on the foam mannequin head. It was a gruesome tableau set out on the table, and he didn't know what to make of it.

"Hey, Gris." He felt Warrick's elbow nudge him, and he looked up to see the younger man holding out a piece of paper that was speckled with dark red spots. He took the note with trepidation and unfolded it, fully prepared to be unprepared for what it would say.

_Close enough to cut more than his hair, I'd think._

_Did you know that the odds of finding a missing person after the first forty eight hours drops by seventy percent?_

He ground his teeth together and just barely managed to resist the urge to crumple the note in his hands. He was sick and tired of being taunted by this bastard.

The note was pulled out of his hand, and Warrick gave a little whistle that was somewhere between impressed and shocked. "At least it's not actually Ed," he mused finally with a frown, before sighing. "I'll get Sara to do a DNA test on... this." He gestured at the macabre delivery.

Grissom nodded, and watched Warrick carefully load the head back into the box. It spoke volumes about their line of work that neither of them were particularly averse to touching the thing.

"I'll go get Sara," Warrick said as he stepped out of the room, leaving Grissom with the box.

* * *

"What was it? Did it have anything to do with Brother?" Al asked as soon as Warrick stepped into the room. He was ignored momentarily as the man motioned Sara out the door.

"I can watch him for a bit; Gris needs you for something."

The woman nodded and left the room, giving a little wave to Al, who waved hesitantly back.

A minute of silence passed as Warrick settled himself into a chair and started flipping absently through the files Sara had been working on. Al tried to be patient, but he knew it wouldn't last long.

Sure enough, he found himself swinging his legs anxiously and opening his mouth.

"What happened?" he asked as calmly as he could. Warrick glanced up at him over the paper.

"Nothing, Al," he deadpanned.

Al narrowed his eyes. "It wasn't nothing. If it was nothing, Mr. Grissom wouldn't have needed Sara for anything."

Warrick shrugged. "Maybe it was for another case."

Al was an Elric for a reason, and he had perfected the art of knowing when someone was lying to him. "But it's not for another case. It's about Ed."

Warrick, who had been flipping a file over and reading it as though the conversation had ended, sighed and placed the sheet back down. He put his elbows on the table and rubbed his face tiredly.

When no response seemed immediately forthcoming, Al crossed his arms over his chest, feeling suddenly anxious. His heart rate picked up. The CSI didn't want to tell him what was going on, which meant that it was something bad. Had they... had they found Ed? Or whatever was left of him?

His heart pounding suddenly, he clenched his fists. "You promised you'd tell me if you found anything. You _promised_."

Warrick leveled him with a serious look. "There are some things that we probably shouldn't tell anybody, and I'm inclined to say that this one falls into that category."

Al ground his teeth in an attempt to not say anything he'd regret. "I have a right to know," he insisted firmly, doing his best to not let his voice wobble. "Ed's my brother, and he's who-knows-where having who-knows-what done to him, and I've been so _goddamn _patient and now that something's finally happened you won't tell me anything!"

Well. Maybe he wasn't so successful at preventing an outburst after all.

Warrick looked away, and Al felt his control slip; the anger melted away to pure panic. "What is it? What did you find? Is Brother alright? Is he... Is he..." _Dead?_ But he couldn't force the words out. Ed had avoided death at every turn so far; he had come back from the brink more times than Al could count. Edward Elric saw the reaper and laughed in its face instead of rolling over like a good human being, and Al couldn't imagine such a thing ever being able to conquer his brother. Sure, he knew that Ed was human and just as prone to being hurt and dying as any other person, but some irrational part of him said that his brother was immortal; that there was nothing in this world that could truly keep him down.

He knew he was wrong. He was so_, so_ wrong. But he couldn't help it.

So when Warrick put his hands on the table and said in a sure voice, "No. We don't think he's dead, and we have no reason to believe otherwise," Al felt something in his chest release, and he deflated like a popped balloon, sinking back into his chair at the sheer _conviction_ in the CSI's voice. Warrick wasn't lying—as far as he knew, Ed was alive. _Ed was alive._

_Unless he's actually dead and they have no proof,_ a little voice in the back of his mind whispered cruelly, but Al did his best to ignore it.

"What is it, then?" he asked quietly, pulling his legs up onto the chair and hugging his knees. The softening of Warrick's eyes told him that it wasn't good news, even still. Al took a deep breath, bracing himself.

"We got a package." And didn't that sound ominous; Al had been penning enough letters to have an idea what kind of package the man would be sending. "It had... something of your brother's in it. And a note. Based on what it said, we have reason to believe he's still alive." _Because he'd be useless dead _went unsaid, but both of them were thinking it.

"So what now?" Al asked hesitantly, doing his best to stem his morbid curiosity over what was in the package. Something of Brother's...? Maybe his coat. Or a piece of his automail? _Winry is going to be so angry when_ (_if,_ his brain muttered)_ we get out of here..._

"Now we check it over and see if there's anything we can use to follow it back to its origins. We haven't been lucky so far, but there's always a chance."

Al nodded, his chin resting lightly on his knees and looking down at the floor. He felt utterly useless because he had no way to help. These people were good at what they did; Nick had actually spent nearly an hour chatting with him about past cases. If the majority of those cases were about kidnapping victims that they found and returned to their families, Al was inclined to let it slide as a coincidence. But it didn't help his state of mind; Ed was always the exception to the rule. Always. And if the CSIs almost always found their kidnapping victims safe and sound—which Al didn't actually believe, but appreciated the attempt to make him feel better—then Ed would be the one who wasn't safe or sound, or wasn't even found at all. It was how the universe worked. And no matter how hard these people tried, Al still felt that it wouldn't be enough. And he, in his now-frail human body and in a place he knew even less than he'd known Central the first time they went there, wouldn't be nearly enough to tip the scale. He didn't even have _alchemy _to help him anymore. For not the first time since he'd gotten his body back, he almost missed the armour. But what could it do? There was no need for his strength or endurance. Nothing to fight. There was only a murderer who was far too good at hiding, and a trail of evidence that landed them squarely back where they began every time they tried. He couldn't just wander around trying to find Ed in such a huge place. They could be anywhere. There was nothing he could do, and because of that Ed was going to die.

_Please, God..._

"Please tell me I can do something to help," he heard himself ask in a small voice. Warrick looked up, and Al couldn't stand the naked sympathy in the man's eyes. He buried his face in his knees and tried to breathe deeply. "There has to be something," he murmured into the sweats he'd borrowed from Catherine, which supposedly belonged to her kid. "Anything. I can't just sit here and wait until you find him dead on the side of the road or cut into pieces and thrown in the ocean or—"

He hadn't heard Warrick get up, so the sudden hand on his shoulder startled him into silence. His head jerked up, and it was only when the man's face appeared blurry in his vision that he realized he was crying. His breath hitched as Warrick grabbed his other shoulder and knelt down to his eye level.

"Hey, hey," the CSI said, and his voice was surprisingly soft. "Your brother's not going to die, you hear me?"

Al shook his head. He didn't want blind promises. He didn't want reassurances, because those did nothing. He wanted to _help_.

Warrick's grip tightened, and Al found himself forced to look into the man's eyes as his vision started to clear, letting the tears fall freely down his face. "Listen to me, Alphonse." His voice was gentle but firm. "We will find him. I don't care what you think about it, because it's been my job for a long time to help people like you. To help the people who can't do anything. You're _not _useless," he growled as Al opened his mouth, and the boy snapped it shut again. "You don't have the resources. Hell, most people don't. That's why we're here. That's why we spend hours going through bits of paper and tiny scraps of information to find the evidence that other people can't. And I can promise you that, without a doubt, we will find Ed. I give you my word, we'll find him. We have the best team in the country. We've solve harder cases than this. And despite what you might think, time is on our side. The person who has your brother wants him for a reason, even if it's just to drive us mad. That means he won't kill him. We can use that. I know it's not much, and I'm not trying to make myself sound like a hero. But we _will _find him."

Al opened and closed his mouth several times, not sure what to say to that. Warrick smiled.

"Now, since you feel so useless, I need some help going over these files. Maybe you could give me a hand, find a connection we haven't seen yet."

Al felt his heart lift hopefully. "Really?"

Warrick winked at him. "Just don't tell the boss."

* * *

Sara sighed as the DNA test results popped up on the screen. "Definite match, for both the hair and the blood," she threw over her shoulder to Grissom. Her boss rubbed his forehead tiredly.

"So we know for sure that he has Ed. He's keeping him somewhere."

"Verifies Al's story, too."

Grissom nodded. "I wasn't disinclined to believe him, but you never know sometimes." Sara watched as his eyes grew somewhat distant, and knew he was remembering other times where they'd trusted someone too easily.

Briskly, she snatched up the printout and slipped it into Ed's file, along with the newest note in a plastic bag. "Well, at least now we have something to work with." Grissom looked up at her, eyebrows furrowed. She held out a second printout that had come out of the machine. "Soil analysis. There was dust in Ed's hair. It obviously came from somewhere, and if we can cross reference the components with one of those geology experts you probably know, we might get a general idea where he is."

She saw the look of comprehension in her boss' eyes and couldn't help but feel somewhat gratified by it. Hopefully, hopefully, this was something they could use.

* * *

**We've reached 30 chapters! We're getting closer and closer to the climax of the story, so hold on tight. It's gonna be a spectacularly bumpy ride.**

**Review if you enjoyed!-Akita**


	31. Another Tenant

**Here's the next chapter, everyone! I know there are those of you who are generally unhappy with how this story is going and I just want to say that I'm sorry you're unhappy, but this is something I'm doing for fun, not for a professional career, and I can't expect everyone to like it all the time. That said, if you don't like it, don't force yourself to read it. I'll be sorry to see you go, but I can't control what you enjoy.**

**Warnings:**** Language, darker imagery, another cliffhanger that will hopefully not last forever, violence and the after effects thereof, 100% Ed-based chapter  
**

* * *

"You cut off my hair!" was the first thing out of Ed's mouth when the door opened. He gripped the crudely cropped ends hanging off of his head and shook his aching head. "You _cut off my goddamned hair!_"

The Psycho leaned against the doorframe nonchalantly, an eyebrow raised, and said nothing. Ed glared heatedly, trying to bore a hole through the man with sheer will alone. It wasn't working.

"Do you know how long it takes to grow your hair that long?" he demanded. "Weeks! Months! I look like a five-year-old again!" He stood slowly on his shaky legs, still ranting. "I could shave your head and see how you feel about it!" He took a step forward. "Or, better yet, maybe I should just cut your balls off—"

Without warning, he leapt forward, his left fist raised and ready to strike while his body aimed for the open doorway past the man.

Five seconds later, he found himself flat on his back, the wind knocked out of him as a hand dug cruelly into the inflamed punctures on his arm and a foot pressed down on his chest. He struggled weakly, feeling the fight leave him as the pressure on his chest increased, causing stabbing pain to radiate through his torso from his ribs, and his arm started to feel like it was going to break in half. Finally, he let his head fall back and focused more on sucking breath into his crushed and abused lungs.

"So you _can_ be taught." He felt the pressure on his chest and arm suddenly release, and he rolled onto his side, gasping and curling around his arm, which felt like it was on fire.

He heard the heavy door slam shut, and a hand dug into his shoulder cruelly.

"We can't have you being a _bad_ little five-year-old, now can we, Edward?" the Psycho hissed in his ear, tightening his grip until Ed gasped. "All that violence—no no no, that's never a good thing. We'll have to beat that out of you. My parents always said, a good beating is better than a hundred lectures." Without warning, something hard impacted with his stomach, and he gasped as he slid slightly across the floor. The hard thing—a booted foot, his mind surmised—struck again with lightning quickness. He tried to defend himself, but he couldn't get a full breath and whenever he tried to protect his stomach and ribs with his hands, the foot would either switch targets to his back or continue kicking at his arm excruciatingly.

It continued for what felt like hours. He heard something crunch and guessed that he had another broken rib or two to add to his docket. His vision, when he managed to open his eyes, swam horribly from lack of oxygen, and he felt extremely light-headed as the blows rained down.

Finally, it stopped. Ed lay gasping on the floor, trying his hardest to get his breath back. There was no space in his lungs for air; his torso felt like a compressed mass of bruises and pain, and every tiny movement triggered lightning zings of pain throughout his body. He clenched his eyes shut and concentrated as hard as he could on taking slow, even, gentle breaths, not caring what he looked like or what the Psycho was doing now. He just had to breathe.

A hand dug into his hair and lifted his head at a painful angle, pulling him half off the floor. His eyes squinted open as he gasped.

"I hope you've learned your lesson this time, Edward," the Psycho said darkly, his face mere inches from Ed's own. "I hate to be so cruel to you, but discipline is always necessary." Abruptly, the hand released, and Ed fell hard onto the floor. "On the other hand, I'm so glad you're awake!" he sing-songed in a voice so different from just seconds before that Ed wondered seriously if he was hallucinating.

_No hallucination hurts this bad_, he reminded himself.

"You've been out of it for so long I was afraid you were going to sleep the whole year away."

Ed's mind stalled slightly. _The whole year? How long have I been out?_

"Bastard," he hissed instead. If he'd really been out that long, he didn't want to know. And if he hadn't, then the Psycho was just playing tricks with his head. That had to be it. There was no way he could've been out for longer than a few hours... Right?

Unbidden, his mind brought up stilted images and sensations that he couldn't quite remember. Colours swirled in his memory, and vague impressions.

_I had a concussion_, he remembered. _And now... now I don't. At least, not as bad_, he amended as his head throbbed again. Concussions didn't just get rid of themselves. They took time—he knew it from long experience.

That meant he had been here at least a full day, maybe two, that he didn't remember.

He looked down at his arm with sudden comprehension. The bites were scabbed over and inflamed, but definitely not _old_. They couldn't be more than a few days past.

"You're a liar," he spat when he finally had enough breath to speak properly. "Stop trying to play with my head. It's not gonna work!"

The Psycho merely raised an eyebrow at him, looking entirely unimpressed. "Well, I hardly need to play with your mind when I have all of the rest of you to play with." The leer that accompanied that statement made a shiver run down Ed's spine. _He can't possibly mean that_, he tried to reassure himself. _More mind tricks._

It didn't help him feel any better about it, and the Psycho seemed to notice because he laughed. It was a low, normal laugh, like the kind that a jovial man would use when he had been told a particularly good joke at a bar with a friend. In this setting, in this plain white room with its unnaturally heavy door and a psychopath staring down at him with wide, unnatural eyes, it sounded more menacing than any stereotypically evil laugh would have.

"How are you liking the accommodations, Edward?" he asked suddenly, gesturing with his arms thrown wide. "I use it just for people like you, and oh, what fun we have in here!" Ed refused to humour him by looking around, and the Psycho's grin collapsed into what could only be described as a pout on any face that wasn't so deranged. "Come now, be a good boy and take a peek around." With unexpected speed, the man's hand whipped out and slapped him across the face, nails dragging across the skin of his cheek and catching his nose hard enough to make Ed's eyes water and rip a gasp from his lungs. His head was forced to the side, and he closed his eyes against the flare of pain in his face.

"I_ said_ take a look around." The dark voice was back, and Ed decided abruptly that conceding this one thing—this one little thing, hardly a thing at all, it wasn't admitting defeat, it _wasn't_—was worth it. He opened his eyes and slowly rotated his head, taking in the room for the third time in what felt like forever.

Unlike the last two times, though, he was mostly coherent and the room was fully lit, so he could see the one thing that he'd missed the other times he'd had the chance to examine his surroundings. Yes, the room was small—probably no more than fifteen feet in any direction—and mostly white, with a stippled white ceiling, but the one thing—the most important thing—that he'd missed was the floor and the lower four feet of the walls.

Dark stains.

Blood.

He felt like he was going to be sick. The majority of the floor was covered in oblong burnished brown stains that were far too large to have been produced by one living person. Living being the key word; Ed had seen enough death and bleeding to know that anyone who'd lost enough blood to make such a stain didn't have much of a chance at surviving. Several of the stains overlapped, creating slightly darker patterns that would have looked almost artistic in any other situation and with any other medium. The lower walls looked like they had been painted by a drunkard—there were several large smears and more small brown spots than he could count.

"You like my work?"

Ed wanted to immediately say no; he really did. But his mouth wouldn't work right now, as occupied as it was with trying not to throw up. Of course, with how empty his stomach was feeling at the moment, he was fairly sure nothing would come up, but it was still unpleasant.

"Ah, speechless, I see! Always a good reaction in the face of art." The Psycho's face was twisted into a demented grin that made him look exactly as crazy as Ed knew he was, and he wanted to punch the man square in the face.

His attempt was soundly rebuffed by an upheld hand and a swift knee to the stomach, which doubled him over and ruined his attempt to keep down his non-existent lunch. Bile rose in his throat, and he didn't have time to consider the prudence of adding to the mess on the floor before he was doing just that. The Psycho merely laughed that same natural, normal-sounding laugh that sent shivers down Ed's spine.

"Not feeling so well? Perhaps I should leave you alone to sleep for a little while. That's what the doctor always says will cure an upset stomach. And maybe a few Tylenol, but... oh dear, I seem to have run out of that. Oh well, looks like you'll have to suffer through it." The condescension was thick in his voice, and now Ed _really_ wanted to punch him in the face. But the man was already backing off, and Ed couldn't have made violent contact if he'd tried. His stomach was too busy trying to exit through his throat for him to be of any use.

"Have a good night, Edward!" he sang from the doorway, before slamming the obviously reinforced door. Ed heard the _snick_ of a strong lock sliding home before he was distracted by more dry heaving.

It took a few minutes for his stomach to settle down once more, and several more for him to get his breath back enough to assess the damage. His stomach felt like it was on fire, and his ribs protested violently as he could no longer simply breathe low to avoid the broken bones. He laid back carefully, doing his best to ease his torso. He coughed several times, but was reassured by the fact that there was no taste of copper in the back of his throat. At least, not yet. Moving would probably cause problems.

"Bastard," he swore to the air, unable to say it to the Psycho's face without far too much effort. Ed let himself relax slightly, trying to ignore all of the aches and pains that were trying to make themselves known. Now that he was alone, his limbs quaked with unsuppressed shivers of both exhaustion and what he was beginning to think was either shock or a potential fever that he really didn't want to consider. Or perhaps it was just the beginning stages of starvation; he knew for a fact that it had been far longer than was healthy since his last meal. He closed his eyes to try and stave off depressing thoughts.

_Think about Al_, he told himself. _Al must have gotten away. The Psycho would have said something if he hadn't._

It took all of his willpower to just keep thinking that, because his pain made him pessimistic. And a pessimistic Ed always thought of the worst possible scenarios.

_He could be dead. Maybe the dogs got him first, but the Psycho just left him. Maybe Al's the one lying on Doc's autopsy table now._

His stomach tried to rebel when his mind conjured up that image, but he shoved it down with an almost physical violence that made his head throb.

_He's fine. Al's fine. You just got him back and he's fine. Safe with Grissom. I just have to bide my time, wait for an opportunity, and then go join him._

He had to keep telling himself that, or he'd go mad.

* * *

It was what felt like several hours later—with his stomach protesting violently, and this time not because it wanted to expel food, but rather because it wanted to inhale food—that the door opened a crack and a plastic bag was thrown in. Ed was leaning against the wall, tinkering carefully with his automail arm in an attempt to reconnect some of the wires that were torn, when it landed at his feet.

"Merry Christmas!" the Psycho called as the door was shut again, and Ed's eyebrows came together at the strange greeting. _What the hell...?_

Unfortunately, his stomach was far too hungry to allow him to ponder it any further; within a few moments he'd torn open the knot at the top of the bag to reveal a bottle of what looked like water and several slices of bread.

"What, no moldy cheese?" Ed complained without much heat. "C'mon, even prisoners of war eat better than this."

No reply was forthcoming, and he sighed, picking up the water and uncapping it carefully. The seal hadn't been broken, so he hoped it was safe. At this stage, if the man wanted him dead he'd probably already be dead, so there wasn't much point in fearing poisoning. Even if it was poisoned, he already knew what that felt like, and there was no way that it was worse than what he was currently feeling.

The water was warm but wet, and the bread was surprisingly soft, but not quite fresh. He didn't care; his stomach accepted it with impunity, and in a matter of moments the tiny meal had been decimated. Ed sat back slowly as he swallowed the last mouthful of water.

Now what?

He felt strangely bloated even after such a small amount of food, and he knew that it wouldn't be the best idea to be trying an escape plan just now. But he'd had hours to just sit and plan, and he was restless despite his injuries and full stomach. With a herculean effort, he levered himself to his feet; it was surprisingly difficult given the state of his arms. Somehow, he managed, and made his way over to the door.

Okay. It looked like plain wood, but he knew that wasn't the case; it was far too heavy. So probably enforced with metal—steel or similar. The only way to find out was to experiment.

He brought his aching left hand down to meet with the near-immobile right before pausing.

Al always accused him of not thinking before he took action, but he had it wrong. Ed always thought before acting—but he usually just ignored the consequences. In this case, though, he actually stopped to truly consider.

Something was wrong with his alchemy. He knew that. Al knew that, at least in a superficial way. But a pattern had been forming over the past two weeks, and he didn't like it. If it continued as it was, then every time he performed alchemy it would get worse and worse until he was literally debilitated every time he brought his hands together.

The worst part was that he didn't know _why._

Ed bit his lip for a moment, and then abruptly came to a decision.

_I can ponder that later. Right now I have to escape, or it won't matter what alchemy does to me._

With that in mind, he formed the equation in his head and placed his hands on the door and frame, stopping at deconstruction just as he had in the other room.

As the wood disintegrated before his eyes, he felt the now-expected but still unpleasant stab of pain expand out from his chest and wrap around his torso like a band. His ribs felt like they were grinding together, and his breath caught violently in his throat. He fought the urge to double over and merely clenched his eyes shut, valiantly breathing through the worst of the pain.

It felt like hours before it finally started to diminish, but Ed knew it had been perhaps thirty seconds. Shaking his head slightly, he shifted his hands and breathed carefully as the pain receded to a dull ache somewhere around his lungs.

Muttering a curse under his breath, he took his hands off of the door and frame and examined his handiwork. The wood was gone, but underneath—just as he'd expected—was a thick sheet of metal.

"Talk about reinforced," he muttered, staring at the steel. It had to be at least two inches thick. Who the hell _was _this guy?

Clenching his jaw, Ed brought his hands together again. He worked with metal all the time; it was his specialty. Steel would be easy to reform. Maybe in the process he could even make himself a new plate to cover the top of his automail; Winry would kill him, sure, but she was going to kill him anyway and he had to be alive for her to do so.

The equation prepped, he placed his hands on the grey steel and watched as the metal morphed under his hands. One piece began to form into a long plate—he knew the dimensions instinctively because he'd been wearing this arm for so many years now. He formed the plate carefully and then began to push all of the rest of the steel to either side, opening a large gap in the thick door.

The pain hit him like a sledgehammer, and he almost removed his hands from the steel as it gripped him like a straightjacket and squeezed. The breath was knocked from his lungs, but he had to finish the transmutation...

It was an agonizing three seconds later that he was able to judge the gap large enough to fit through, and he let the alchemical energy fade and his arms fall. His vision abruptly whited out as he took a breath, and he blinked and found himself on the floor, his eyes mere centimetres from an ugly brown stain. His arm was being crushed beneath him, but far outweighing that pain was the sheer agony that was flaming its way through his chest and radiating outwards—up his neck to the base of his skull, down his leg and arm, and even making his automail limbs twitch slightly from overstimulation. He couldn't focus properly around it, and he trembled violently as it only seemed to get worse through breathing.

He waited. And waited.

But the pain didn't fade. Not completely. The sharpest of it, around the centre of his chest, dulled slightly, but he continued to tremble and ache. An intense migraine slithered across his skull, pressing against his eyes and temples. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing it to calm, but it didn't.

An indeterminate amount of time later, he rolled onto his back carefully, groaning as his entire body protested.

_Note to self: alchemy is bad_, he thought with no small amount of trepidation. He opened his eyes slowly and winced as his head throbbed. Standing was a whole process in and of itself; his limbs didn't want to obey him, and his torso—cracked or broken ribs, abused stomach, and strange debilitating pain all wrapped in one—was protesting every step of the way. But eventually he managed to right himself, carefully grabbing the replacement plate from the floor, and leaned gently against the wall.

"Shit," he muttered. If this was how he was going to react every time he performed alchemy, then he was in for a world of trouble. He would have to rely on brute force and cunning to get out of here, and given the state of his body and the throbbing in his head...

_I'm screwed._

He fiddled quickly with the plate, slotting it crudely into his torn arm with the sincere hope that it would keep itself there for at least a short period of time. He slowly took a step forward through the doorway, because really there was nothing else he could do right now.

Outside of the door was a relatively normal hallway—if long, narrow, entirely white, and unadorned could be considered normal. Out here, there were no bloodstains anywhere, and Ed felt a sick sort of relief at that. With a few halting steps that sent small twitches through his chest, he made his way down the hall, one hand lightly pressed against the wall. After a moment, he came to a corner and glanced around it.

Another hall stretched away, this one with a few more doors on it and what appeared to be a small, high window at the far end. The positioning of it told Ed that this was probably a basement. And that was a potential escape route.

With hurried but silent steps, he crept down the hall to the window and, standing as tall as he could, peered out just over the lip of the windowsill. All he could see outside was darkness with a few silhouettes that might have suggested objects or a small hill, but there was little he could make out. He reached up with his left arm and pressed it against the window panes, waiting for any movement. The window groaned ever so slightly, but he couldn't feel any give. He flicked at the latch on it that was level with his eyes, and it turned reluctantly. Unlatching it, he pressed against the window, and the frame creaked and gave after a moment, opening up and letting a small breeze to worm its way past his face.

"Jackpot," Ed whispered triumphantly, and moved to pull himself up onto the sill.

The moment he grasped the window frame and made to pull, his automail arm ground slightly, and something in it snapped. At the same time, his left arm flared with pain from the dog bites, and a spasm shot up from his core muscles, making him lose his grip and go crashing back to earth.

Swearing violently under his breath, Ed leaned against the wall and breathed for a moment, willing the pain to deaden. It slowly leeched out, leaving his arm burning and his chest feeling like a fifty pound weight rested on it. He tried to lift his automail, but found it almost entirely unresponsive. He could move the thumb and forefinger, but the other fingers and the wrist were completely immobile. Cursing again, he gently pulled the new metal plate off of it—ignoring the pain in his working arm—and dismally examined the snapped wires within. It looked like one of the ragged metal edges from before had been pressing against an important wire, and putting stress on it had made it shift and cut straight through the cable.

"Just what I need," Ed growled lowly. "As if this week could get any better."

He looked up at the window above his head and sighed. It would take at least two working arms to get himself up and out of that, and right now he was sitting with one completely non-functional and one partially-functional arm. It wasn't looking good for him, and if he pushed it he wouldn't be able to make it to where he needed to go.

So. That would be his last resort. There had to be a better escape route around here somewhere. _And if I don't find one in the next five minutes, the window it is_, he decided.

Muttering profanities under his breath, he levered himself to his feet and stumbled his way down the hallway.

A noise made him pause, waiting with bated breath for the Psycho to come around the corner and kick him into the ground again. He brought up his left arm, prepared to defend himself as best he could. When nothing happened a moment later, he felt himself relax slightly. Without lowering his arm, he took a few more steps towards the corner.

"...Hello?"

Ed's heart lurched in his chest and he whirled around, trying to find where the voice had come from.

"Is someone out there? Hello?"

It sounded like a woman's voice, and it was coming from behind one of the doors that lined the hallway. He crept toward the door with some trepidation.

"Please, help me!" the woman called quietly, her voice breaking slightly.

"Who's there?" Ed hissed when he reached the door, looking around carefully for the Psycho.

There was a breathless silence, and then a sob. "Oh my god, I thought I heard someone but I wasn't sure... Help me, please!"

Ed bit his lip at the rising hysteria in the woman's voice, and quickly cut her off. "Can you open the door?"

He heard a shuffling in the room beyond, and then a plaintive "It's unlocked, I think... I just... I can't get to it to check, and—"

"That's okay, I'll get it," Ed reassured her, before reaching out and turning the knob. True to her word, it was indeed unlocked and turned easily under his hand. The heavy door opened slowly and let light into a room that looked disturbingly similar to his own prison, except significantly cleaner. Against the far wall was a young woman, probably no older than twenty. Her blond hair was plastered to her head in sweaty clumps, and her shirt and skirt combo were ragged and dirty. She was leaning against the wall as if it was the only reason she was upright, and tear tracks were digging trenches down her dirt-smeared face.

When she saw him, her eyes went wide and she sat up straight. "Thank god, thank god," she began muttering like a mantra, and he could almost visibly see her simply let go and break down in front of him. "Thank god!" she sobbed, and brought her hands up to cover her eyes. It was at that moment that Ed saw the reason she couldn't open the door—a pair of handcuffs were clamped tightly around her wrists, and the centre chain was attached to a larger chain that was fastened to a ring screwed into the wall.

Well shit. How was he going to get _that_ off?

He didn't even think about leaving her; it was a given that he was going to help her. He didn't need Al to be his moral compass. Stepping forward, he knelt beside her and grabbed her wrist gently, examining the cuffs. He could feel her eyes boring into him.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice trembling. He felt her other hand on his cheek, and he pulled away with a jerk.

"I'm fine," he said shortly. "You're the one who has to get out of here."

"Were you a prisoner too?" she continued, as if he hadn't spoken. "How did you get out?"

Ed pursed his lips and tracked the handcuff chain with his eyes, looking for the weakest point. "Yeah, I'm stuck here too, but we're gonna get out, you and me, okay?" He looked up and met her eyes until she nodded slightly. "You have to listen to what I say when I say it, and we'll get out."

Her eyebrows came together stubbornly and she nodded more vigorously than before. He could see her taking a deep breath as he moved back to the handcuff chain, and he smiled slightly. Looked like there was some strength in this one.

"I'll have to break this. Hold on for a sec, alright?" He felt her brace her feet against the floor and stiffen her arms instinctively, and Ed gently pulled her arms down to floor and stepped firmly with his automail foot on the chain between her hands. "Don't move. I'll try not to hurt you."

The woman took a deep breath and nodded, and Ed grasped the cuff around her right wrist firmly in his left hand and gave a sharp wrench.

The chain under his foot jerked, and the woman stifled a cry as her hand was pinched against his boot. Ed bit his lip and readjusted his foot with a murmured apology before trying one more time. The results were just as unsatisfactory as the first time; all it yielded was another cry from the woman, this one slightly louder, and a distinct lack of breakage in the chain.

"Shit," Ed muttered. "Looks like it's stronger than I thought," he said apologetically as the woman pulled back her hands with a wince. The defeated look in her eyes was almost heartbreaking, and he frowned. "Let me try to get the chain out of the wall." He examined the loop closely before hooking his finger in it and giving a strong pull. It remained stubbornly affixed to the wall, and his forearm and shoulder protested angrily. Biting his lip and setting his jaw, Ed twisted his wrist, hoping to unscrew it, but it appeared to be firmly and permanently attached.

He sat back with a sigh, rubbing his hand down his face.

"You can just leave me here," the woman suddenly said in a small voice. "Just go. Bring someone back to help me, or something. I'll be fine."

Ed looked up at her, an eyebrow raised. "Lady, that is the stupidest idea I've ever heard. Last time I told someone to do that for me, I got moved here. There's no guarantee you'd still be here when I got back. If I can't leave with you, then I'm not leaving."

She opened her mouth to argue, her eyes dark with both stubbornness and hopelessness. Ed gritted his teeth and began to bring his hands together.

"Well, isn't this _touching_." Ed whirled, crouching as best he could and raising his arm into a stilted mockery of a fighting stance. The Psycho stood in the doorway, a wide toothy smile adorning his face. "It's so sweet that you would sacrifice your own freedom for a poor innocent damsel in distress, Edward, but I think that wasn't very wise." He took a slow step into the room, his smile stretching. "I saw what you did to my door. Not very nice, I'd have to say." Ed's mouth lifted in a snarl and he shifted his weight, preparing—

And then he saw the gun.

The gun that wasn't pointed at him. It was aimed squarely at the head of the woman beside him.

Ed's feet were already moving to step in front of her when the Psycho pulled the trigger.

* * *

**I'd like to welcome frizzie123 to the beta-ing family for this fic; now I'll have another set of eyes other than my own and the beautiful sama-chan's in order to make this fic even better. I can't guarantee the arrival of the next chapter (as always), but I hope that it won't be long.**

**Review if you enjoyed!**

**-Akita**


	32. The Lead

**So this was supposed to go up last week, but then GISHWHES happened.**

**Warnings: The usual language, violence, blood and such things, gratuitous vocal slurring and poor grammar.  
**

* * *

He wasn't fast enough.

The shot was deafening in the small room, and his feet were suddenly rooted to the ground. There was a moment of breathless, terrified silence as Ed held the Psycho's gaze with wide eyes.

And then the woman let out a small cry.

"Oops, I missed."

Ed whipped his head around to see her holding one hand tightly to her left upper arm, the other hand twisted up awkwardly because of the handcuffs. Blood was already trickling slowly from under her fingers. She was shivering, her eyes closed as she hunkered down on herself, and Ed could see a slightly smoking hole in the wall just behind her.

"Come on, Ed," the Psycho taunted. "Try my patience. I promise the next one won't be so kind."

Ed's entire body clenched—in anger or wariness, or even the instinctive reaction of stillness in the face of such a threat—and he turned his heated glare onto the man, who seemed entirely unaffected as he leveled the gun once more at the woman's head.

"What the _hell_ do you want?" he growled, clenching his teeth.

"Who's to say I want anything at all?"

"No one goes around killing innocent girls and then kidnapping my brother and I without a reason!"

"Is entertainment not enough?" The man waved the gun in the air slightly, but before Ed could more than twitch it was once more levelled at his fellow prisoner. "Can I not just take pleasure from a plan well-executed?"

Ed snorted. "So this is all just a game to you, huh?" Rage was already pumping through his limbs, but he couldn't do anything about it. He had to wait for the right moment—

"Of course it is! You think it's so important, this morality, this _order_ you live with, but try killing a few people, Ed. It does wonders for the compass. It's... Well, I suppose it's a bit _freeing_."

The ice that ran down his spine—an ice that whispered _Greed, Greed, Greed_—was both entirely unexpected and inevitable, and it surprisingly added to his fury instead of dampening it. "Like hell it is! Maybe for _psychopaths _like you!"

The Psycho's eyes widened slightly. "Now Ed, there's no need for name-calling. We're having a civil conversation." Contrary to his words, he twitched the gun.

Ed gritted his teeth. "Then shoot me!" He threw his good arm out to the side, his automail twitching up slightly but remaining mostly motionless. "Clearly you're just a bastard who likes playing with people, so go ahead and shoot! I'm not gonna play your games!"

There was a breathless second when Ed actually thought he was going to do it, when the air in the room snapped with tension and the Psycho's eyes narrowed slightly.

And then it was broken when he reached into his pocket with lightning-quick gloved hands and threw something at Ed.

The reaction was automatic—half a second later, Ed's hand was held in front of him to deflect the object, and suddenly it burst. Liquid flew over his hand and splattered down his arm and across his face, and what looked like bits of floppy plastic clung to his skin. He swore and shook off his arm, wiping his face frantically with his torn sleeve in an attempt to get the oddly soapy-smelling liquid off of him. Whatever it was, it was clearly bad news.

"Fortunately, I don't actually _have _to shoot you, Ed. Though at this point it would almost be a blessing for me." The Psycho was smirking slightly, a gleam in his eyes that Ed _really _didn't like.

"What the hell is this?"

The smirk widened. "It's just something to make you a little more... _compliant_."

Ed let out an inarticulate growl and leapt forward, ignoring the pain in his flesh leg and the gun still being pointed just past him. Apparently he'd actually taken the man by surprise, because he didn't react until the weapon had already been violently wrenched from his hand and crushed beneath Ed's automail foot. In the next moment, Ed was full-on bodychecking the Psycho off of his feet and landing on top of him with a painful grunt. The man didn't take long to recover, though, and already one of his hands was fisting in Ed's hair as he tried to land a punch on the guy's face. His one working arm was occupied with his strike, and so he couldn't steady himself as he was wrenched to the side and onto the ground. He kicked out with all his might and felt the resistance that told him his automail foot had connected with something. By the angry shout that followed, he really hoped it was something important, though he couldn't see with his head twisted awkwardly in the Psycho's fist. He reached up with his good arm and grabbed the man's wrist, trying to twist it away. He succeeded—marginally. He could barely get a grip on it because it was so thick; the fabric under his fingers was rough and hard, and he couldn't even feel the warmth of the man's body through it. The hand twisted, but didn't release his hair, and so he ended up wrenching his own head to the side and clipping his chin against the floor. A crackle told him that his neck would be punishing him for it later, but that concern was benched quickly as another hand squeezed his forearm until he involuntarily released the one in his hair. All the while, his feet were kicking out, and a moment later he finally hit pay dirt as the Psycho dropped him carelessly on the ground with another shout.

"Oh, did that _hurt_?" Ed taunted without thinking as he pushed himself onto his knees with difficulty. He barely had time to look up and catch a glimpse of the Psycho holding an arm across his stomach before he saw stars and felt himself impact the wall behind him. He stumbled to his feet, ready to fend off another attack, when he saw that the man was no longer advancing. In fact, he was standing in the opposite corner of the room, leaning casually—but not _too_ casually, Ed was pleased to note—beside the door, a hand held lightly to his stomach.

"What's the matter, scared of me?" Ed growled with some heat. He made to take a step, and only realized that something was wrong when instead of going forward, his body instead moved _back_. "What the hell...?" he muttered, reaching a hand to his head to steady it—but his hand instead slid across his jaw. A strange tingling washed across his entire body before fading slightly, and he stumbled back into the wall behind him.

"Ah, good, it's working," the Psycho said, and Ed stared at him. "The adrenaline drives it through your body faster." The words were slightly out of sync with the mouth movements, as though the sound were taking just a split second longer to reach his ears. Another wave of tingling, this time accompanied by a feverish sort of warmth, washed over him, lasting slightly longer. He barely felt the slide of the wall behind him as the world tilted to a slightly lowered perspective, and his hand against the floor only registered as a vague pressure near his shoulder. He could hear himself drawing thick, panting breaths, but the air couldn't be felt by his suddenly-numb lips.

The dark thought of _Goddamnit, I've been poisoned AGAIN_ slithered through his mind as the ground in front of his eyes swam slightly. A hand entered his vision, wrapping squarely around his wrist—or what he figured was his own wrist, but hell, he couldn't actually feel anything anymore—and yanking him upright. Well, he assumed it was upright, because a moment later the world was dancing around him in strange circles that slowed down and sped up without his consent.

"Finally, a bit of obedience," someone said, though it was disjointed and barely comprehensible because it moved at the same varying speed that the world did. But something in his mind—some red button that said "Oh _hell_ no!"—flipped, and he dragged his uncooperative limbs forward and lashed out at the voice. _Too slow_, his mind told him, but the world said otherwise when a horrible grating sound that could have been words if it wasn't so _damn slow_ accompanied another abrupt shift in perspective. The ceiling was very nice—low with white stippling, though it could have been better without that big metal hook—

Pain blossomed in his side, and he realized that not everything moved slowly right now as his nearly unnoticed breaths became shallow and impossibly fast. The world shifted again—_why the hell can't they just let me be!_—and everything was so profoundly slow-fast that it left trails of colour across his vision. Things rattled and more noises that could have been words echoed slightly, and then breathing became even more of a chore, and the world was swinging from side to side, and from somewhere impossibly far away a door slammed.

Everything just sort of drifted after that, and Ed drifted with it.

* * *

It was two hours later, when Al was sitting restlessly in a corner of the makeshift Trace lab watching Greg and Grissom run test after test on the soil sample that they had finally admitted they'd found in the package to do with Ed, that Sara suddenly came barrelling in.

"Nick found something," she said breathlessly, and it was like she'd shoved a stick into an anthill. Al leapt to his feet with a cry of "What?" even as Greg threw down the paper he was reading and Grissom was already halfway to the door with a curt "Show me."

Stopping Al from following didn't even seem to cross anyone's mind as all four of them speed-walked down the hallway, Sara already explaining. He was more than grateful that he had either fallen under the radar so well or was trusted enough at this point, because what she was saying made his heart thump heavily.

"So the mail keeps arriving with the same return address, right?" Sara asked, apparently rhetorically as she continued on. "So Nick had the idea that maybe it was strange enough to attract some notice; especially a package as large as the one we just got. You can't just drop something like that in a mail box." They stopped outside of a set of double doors, and Sara turned to them. "He figured he'd call around; at this point, anything is better than nothing. But here's the thing—he actually found something. The guy who answered at the South Jones Boulevard office said he'd seen something weird just a few days ago." She turned and shouldered through the doors into a room with a few couches and what was apparently a "vending machine", according to Greg. Nick was sitting forward on one of the couches, speaking intently with a nervous-looking man on the one across from him.

"Hey Sara," he said, glancing up in greeting. "Guys. This is Don." The other man lifted a hand in a quiet greeting, his other hand fiddling with a rip in his jeans. "He's got something to tell you."

Don grimaced and tugged at his worn golf shirt's collar, the USPS logo nearly lost under the light jacket he was wearing over it. Grissom sat down beside Nick, and Greg and Al both hovered awkwardly around them, entirely unwilling to leave but not wanting to sit on one of the farther couches.

"What did you see, Don?" Grissom asked gently, though Al could detect the hint of steel determination underneath. The postal worker fidgeted again.

"Well, I didn't really _see _nothin' at first, it was more like what someone in the sorting room said, and then Friday I _did_ see it, and Beth'd said not to mention it—"

"Don. I need you to tell me what happened."

Don swallowed slightly and picked at his jeans again, his eyes on his shoes. "So there's always talk in the back, right? Things comin' back, weird things people buy, funny names—y'know, there ain't much to do and it's a way to pass the time. So Beth was sayin' she'd got this real weird letter a few weeks ago, some kind of return address she never heard of, but it made her laugh for a bit. She said it was somethin' about laughing, maybe from a joke shop, an' the zip code looked like some kinda Canadian one, with letters 'n' numbers. Didn't think nothin' of it till the next one came through and Anders found it this time, said it was weird they kept comin' through our office. Then Friday some guy walks in with a package when I'm workin' the desk, and it's got this address on it that's like, 'Haha Incompetant Street ex oh ex!'"

Al felt his stomach tighten suddenly. "What did he look like?" he asked without thinking. Grissom and Don both looked up at him, one considering and the other wide-eyed and nervous.

"Don't remember well, but I know he was a bigger fella, probably hasn't seen a set of stairs in 'bout three years. Sweatin' like a pig an' it ain't even fifty degrees yet."

Al's heart sank. It wasn't him.

"Did he say anything?" Grissom asked quickly.

Don shrugged. "Well, he was lookin' real pleased with hisself when he gave me the package. Said somethin' about a guy too much in a hurry when he gave me a fifty for it; I ain't gonna ask no questions about it 'cause he had the money, you know? But he kept sayin' someone asked him to mail this package for them and told him to keep the change, an' I thought that was weird because no one really likes havin' someone else do their mail."

"So you mailed a package that was paid for by someone who was clearly _not_ the sender?" Greg asked. "I thought that was against regulations."

Don shrugged again. "Maybe. I'm not the one to ask; that'd be my manager's thing to check, not mine."

"Did anything happen after you took this package in?" Nick asked tightly.

When Don shook his head, Grissom stood. "Thank you for the information. You're free to go; we'll call you if we need anything else."

The postal worker sprung to his feet like an elastic band. "Just a quick question?" When Grissom nodded, he hurried on. "Is this like... somethin' to do with a murder? Am I gonna get hunted down or somethin'? 'Cause I don't mind helping you but I don't really wanna end up dead, you know?"

"You'll be fine," Nick assured him. "Believe me. No one's gonna come after you."

Don looked relieved, and hurried his way out the door with a bare glance and nod at everyone in the room.

Greg sighed explosively, his cheeks puffing out. "So how exactly did all those letters end up under the radar? I thought they had things that looked up addresses or something."

Grissom rubbed his chin. "They usually worry mainly about the shipping address, but the return address usually warrants a glance when it's that odd and unrecognizable."

"That office has the lowest rating in the city," Nick cut in. "Seriously, the Google reviews alone are damning. I wouldn't be surprised if they shipped something without a return address at all."

"So what does that mean?" Al demanded, unable to stay silent. He was doing his level best to keep his feet firmly planted where they were until such a time as he knew _where_ this place was and _how_ he was supposed to get there, but once he knew, there was no way he would be sitting around waiting for people to decide on a course of action. If they had some idea of where Ed was right now, then Al would find him, proper procedures be damned.

Grissom gave him a slow, steady look, as if he were assessing and weighing exactly what to tell him. Al felt his fists clench unbidden, and was about to insist on being told when the man spoke. "It means that your brother is likely somewhere in Spring Valley." A moment later, the CSI was on his feet, deftly issuing commands to his subordinates. "Sara, I want the surveillance tapes from the post office." She nodded and was gone. "Nick, get Warrick. Call any convenience stores in the area. If our guy's around, then he'll have needed supplies. Maybe one of the late-night staff have seen him come by. Take the sketch from yesterday." Nick gave a small, lazy salute and left, undoubtedly in search of his partner and the portrait a sketch artist had from Al's description. "Al." The Elric looked up, startled at having been addressed. "You're coming with me. We're going to find Catherine and Brass, and then go out and do a sweep of the area."

"Why are you bringing me with you?" Al asked—uncertain though not entirely displeased—as he followed Grissom's quick stride back through the double doors with Greg just behind him.

The man's shrewd gaze turned back to him as they walked. "Because I can't leave you alone, and the only one left behind is Greg, who's going to keep running the soil samples while we're gone." His eyes had switched to Greg then, giving the slightly sheepish-looking Trace expert an expectant look.

"Right, I'll get on that," Greg said, turning on his heel abruptly and heading in the opposite direction.

Grissom fixed Al's gaze once again with a serious look. "And you're our best resource right now. You've known this man for longer and more closely than anybody here—" he held up a hand to stave off Al as he opened his mouth to protest, "—and I know it wasn't by your own choice, but it's the reality of the situation. You're the most likely to recognize either him or a place where he would be staying. He kept you at that house on East Washington and then the country house; I think you're familiar enough with his preferred location, especially if you're as smart as your brother. And you're also the most qualified to recognize any sign Ed might have left for us if he's had the chance." He stopped walking and put a hand on Al's shoulder. "We're not going to let you on the front lines, even though you probably wouldn't have a problem with that." _When it comes to Ed, that's true,_ Al thought. "But we need you along because at this point, we need all the help that we can get. And I doubt I could stop you, anyway."

A moment of silence passed before Al managed to express himself. "Thank you, Mr. Grissom," he said quietly. The man probably didn't understand exactly how much it meant to him that he wasn't being treated like a child or being held back for his own safety; he and Ed had experienced that far too many times in the last few years, and if it had come from the only person he felt he could really trust in this place then he probably would have lost it, level-headed (or at least in comparison to Ed) reputation be damned.

* * *

"Hey, whaz y'r name?"

The woman sniffed heavily and lifted her head to look up at him before averting her eyes, as if she were scared to look at him. "Ashley," she said quietly after a moment.

Ed grimaced as his shoulder gave another twinge, and then forced a smile onto his face. "Hi Ashley, 'm Ed. Pleased t'meetcha," he slurred, and he hoped that the smile was working at least a little bit, because he still couldn't really feel his face.

Her eyes focussed back on his face with a darkly perplexed look that clearly stated that this was not the time for jokes. Ed let the smile drop—it was more of a grimace, anyway. His shoulder ached fiercely, and he shifted as well as he could to try and relieve it. Unfortunately, that upset his unsteady purchase on the floor and sent him spinning gently away from Ashley's gaze. With a curse, he scrambled with his toes for purchase with limbs that still didn't quite respond well—though his automail seemed to be listening a lot better than his flesh and blood leg—until the tip of one of his combat boots finally gripped the flagstones well enough that he could stop the still-sickening motion.

Carefully, so as not to shift his equilibrium again, he glared upwards at the large metal hook in the ceiling that had seemed so strangely inconspicuous before. Well, he mused, it wasn't so much the hook itself that would make such a thing strange, but rather the thick chain that had been connected to it sometime in the near past and from which he now hung suspended by his aching left arm like a hunted deer.

It had taken him what felt like ages to regain enough of his mental faculties to notice his surroundings properly again. According to Ashley, in response to a heavily slurred and probably entirely incomprehensible inquiry, it had been something close to half an hour since the Psycho had left him hanging there, and another ten minutes before Ed had managed the focus to properly assess his current predicament. He wasn't entirely sure if the numbness—which had covered his entire body before devolving into tingling and then aches and twitches that were eventually focused from his waist up—was from the drug or the excruciating pressure of hanging by the arm with barely a toe-hold on the ground, but either way it sucked. Breathing was certainly becoming an increasing problem as his ribs protested violently against both their previous treatment and their current over-extended, unnatural position. Each breath hurt slightly more than the last, and with a chest full of bruises and (hopefully just cracked but probably) broken ribs, the pain was quickly becoming nightmarish. The vague floaty feeling in his head that still remained wasn't helped along much by the potential oxygen shortage, either.

The only real upsides he could see in this situation were:

A) his automail arm wasn't chained (but, to be entirely honest, it was useless to him anyway. The most he could get out of it were a creaky curling of the thumb and forefinger, and enough give in the elbow and shoulder to raise it about as high as his waist before it decided it would go no further. Honestly, the only real good thing about it was that having it hanging kept the pressure off of the shoulder port and (hopefully) prevented him from asphyxiating quite as quickly), and

B) the drug was wearing off. (Or at least, he hoped it was. Because if it wasn't, he was slowly dying and unable to notice it. And being poisoned with something potentially life-ending was horrible and unpleasant and _so last month_ that he was more than done with it. Not just with poisoning a concept, but with being poisoned. Period.)

Which brought his thoughts to another point. "This guy and his goddamn drugs," Ed complained with heat. "I don't even know how many things he's tossed in my system, but I'm gonna need some serious medical intervention if he throws any more weird concoctions in my face!" He only realized after the fact that a few of those words were perhaps a bit too large for his still-recovering facial muscles, but he assumed that his quiet audience got the drift by her slow and sympathetic nod.

"How bad is it?" she asked suddenly, tucking her knees up to her chest and wrapping her shackled hands around them. "The drugs, I mean. And everything else." She made a vague sort of gesture at Ed's chest area, where he knew there was some brightly mottled skin showing through his unfortunately torn shirt.

"Well, I'm hanging in there," he said, unable to resist, as his face slowly regained feeling in a series of long, uncomfortable tingles. Ashley snorted darkly, and Ed blew his blood-caked bangs out of his face as best he could. "Though I could do without my arm being numb right now." As soon as he had use of his fingers, he knew they could be out of here, but right now the most his arm yielded was a tingling pain in his wrist where the shackle at the end of the chain was wrapped around it. He glared up at it, willing the drugs to wear off faster.

"He talks about you sometimes," Ashley suddenly said, looking at her knees.

"What?"

"Him." She tossed her head slightly in the direction of the closed door.

When nothing more seemed forthcoming, Ed prompted, "And?"

"He's kind of scary when he comes in, because half the time he's ranting and raving under his breath. Like some crazy person, you know?"

"Well, can't really argue with that one."

Ashley snorted again, though Ed could tell it was half-hearted at best, and her hands were clenched tightly around her knees. "Crazier than usual, then. But most of the time it's like he doesn't even know I'm there, except for feeding me and... you know." She shrugged, and Ed's eyes were drawn to the large bruise wrapping around the back of her neck under her ear. "He goes on and on about how... how you ruined everything. I don't know what he's talking about, but he's not even always angry. It's like... it's a game to him—" she gave Ed a significant look, and he huffed slightly, "—and sometimes he's winning and sometimes he's losing. And you're the other player, I think."

"Sorry to break it to you, but I don't know what we're playing or why he hates me so goddamn much."

Ashley shrugs half-heartedly. "I don't know. He doesn't usually make sense, even if he goes on and... and on about things. I think... He doesn't care what I hear, because I'll just end up like all the other girls." Her voice caught at the end of her words, and she went silent for a minute. Ed did his best to ignore her tears, because despite how badly he wanted to, he didn't know how to comfort crying girls. As sorry as he felt for her, any awkward comfort he tried to offer would be received about as well as a cat bringing home a dead rat: with a pitying sort of acceptance that does a horrible job of covering up the anger and disgust as he inevitable says the wrong thing. Silence was definitely better right now; he'd learned that well over the years.

Finally, Ashley seemed to calm herself, and cleared her throat. "I... Sorry, I just..." She took a deep breath and scrubbed her face with her linked hands. Ed didn't have the heart to tell her that all she succeeded in doing was smearing her tears and the dried blood beneath them across her face. "I don't want to die here," she finally whispered.

"And you're not gonna," Ed said firmly. "Not on my watch." He could feel the tingling in the tips of his fingers, causing a pins-and-needles agony to run down his arm, but at least there was some feeling. It would have to be enough. For the first time (at least in this world; he might have done it back home sometime, but really, with all the kidnappings he'd been through, who was counting?), he was glad that he had blood on his fingers, though it was probably mixed with the weird liquid the Psycho'd thrown at him, which was probably why his arm was the last thing to come back. Hopefully it would be enough.

He didn't usually have the luxury of seeing his hands at this point, so he used it to its full advantage by watching carefully as his fingers curled toward the chain. He could hear Ashley asking something, but he ignored it in favour of concentration. He touched his first finger to a sluggishly bleeding cut near the heel of his thumb (_That's new_, he thought, but didn't particularly waste much brainpower on an injury he'd likely gained while flailing on the ground like a drunken fish) and carefully, though he'd done it what felt like thousands of times, sketched out a small transfiguration circle.

"We're getting out of here," he said to Ashley with a devilish (though likely lopsided—his lower lip was still half numb) smirk as he pressed his fingers firmly to the circle.

In hindsight, he really should have realized that such a cheesy line with a smile like that was just _begging_ the universe to screw you over.

He expected the surge of energy that said the reaction was deconstructing the metal. He expected the equation to run through his head in the blink of an eye. He even expected the sharp pain spreading from his chest once more.

He didn't expect nothing.

There was no pull, no equation besides the one he'd already put together. There was no pain.

And there was no reaction.

He threw his head back and checked the circle—but it was complete; slightly more lopsided than he would have liked because of the narrowness of the chain link, but nonetheless whole. He'd had sloppier circles work for him in much worse situations. But, just to be sure, he pressed his fingers to it again. There was nothing. Even if the metal wasn't what he thought it was (which it definitely was, because he wasn't called the _Fullmetal_ Alchemist just because of his automail, thankyouverymuch), the circle would have had some kind of reaction, even if just in his head. But nothing happened.

Ignoring the whisper of doubt coiling in the back of his mind, he touched his finger to the cut again and stretched his hand as far as it would go in order to scrawl another—this time much more carefully drawn—circle on the next link up the chain.

But pressing his fingers to it yielded just as much as it had before.

"Shit," he muttered, staring up at the circle and then down to his useless automail hand. _What the hell am I supposed to do now?_

* * *

**Sorry for the delay and the abrupt end of the chapter. It's mid August and school will soon be starting, work is picking up, and GISHWHES. Just... GISHWHES. I'm still a bit shell-shocked from that. Next chapter's ETA is unknown; apologies on that. **

**Review if you enjoyed!  
**

**-Akita**


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